


Not So Fragile a Thing

by K_Hanna_Korossy



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-18 21:58:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4721933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Hanna_Korossy/pseuds/K_Hanna_Korossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After all they've been through, can Starsky forgive a betrayal by his partner?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not So Fragile a Thing

Written: 2005

First published in "Compadres 27" (2005)

Fan-Q Award Winner

****

            "I think Dobey wants us to work on the depositions for the Bajwa case tomorrow."

            Dave Starsky saw his partner grin at the windshield. "What gave you that idea, the five times he mentioned it, or the visit he set up for us with the DA?"

            "Oh, I don't know – maybe I'm psychic."

            Ken Hutchinson made a sound of disbelief. "Yeah, and maybe I'm Jewish."

            "Ma would be thrilled." Starsky slid over on the passenger seat a few inches so he could lean against the door, but even that pulled at muscles that were already aching. He winced.

            Which Hutch, of course, immediately noticed. "You okay?" he asked, the line of worry that had just started fading from between his eyebrows back again.

            "I'm fine," Starsky said. "Just tired. Been a long day."

            Hutch was still dividing his attention between the road and his passenger, favoring the passenger. "Did you take your pills at lunchtime?"

            Starsky swallowed a sigh. "No, you know I don't do that at work. I had some Tylenol."

            "Just muscle aches, or something–"

            "Hutch," he said patiently.

            "Yeah, okay, I know. I just–"

            "You worry. And I appreciate it. But I'm gettin' better, okay? If it starts bein' too much, you'll be the first to know, trust me." It was hard to relinquish that kind of trust after being responsible so long for someone's recovery; Starsky knew that from his own experience, after Hutch's kidnapping and dosing with heroin, after the attempted hit that had resulted in Hutch being trapped for days under his car in Topanga Canyon, after the plague had nearly killed him. Starsky knew what he was asking.

            Hutch huffed softly, knowing the same, but then gave a trace of a smile. "You're right."

            "You wanna say that a little louder? I'm not sure I heard ya."

            Hutch rolled his eyes, aiming a very gentle swat at his passenger. "There's nothing wrong with your ears, Camille. I know you're right, it's just…"

            Hutch had seen him die. Yeah, Starsky knew that part, too. And that for all Hutch's joy and relief at Starsky's recovery from the near-fatal shooting, his scars ran even deeper than the ones on Starsky's chest. Protectiveness was a given, even with the limited desk-duty Starsky was on. It just inevitably got old sometimes.

            Starsky leaned his shoulder gratefully against the warm window, the soft heat relaxing his muscles. He did sigh this time, half relief, half not knowing what to do with this worried partner of his.

But for now he just nodded. "I know."

            Another minute of silence. Hutch finally snapped himself out of it. "So, you seeing Angie tonight?"

            "We had a fight last night," Starsky said reluctantly. Maybe they should have stayed on the easier topic of his brush with death.

            Hutch glanced at him, probably reading his response. "Sorry."

            Starsky shrugged with just his face. "It's not her fault I don't know what I want. Almost dyin' makes you rethink what's important."

            Even in profile, Hutch's wince was obvious to him. Starsky knew he'd been rethinking a few priorities too, not that it had changed anything between them except to pull them even closer together. Nothing like almost losing something to make you realize what you had.

            Starsky looked out the side window. "We met in the hospital, Hutch," he added philosophically. "She knew what she was signin' on for." Unlike Hutch, who had never expected all the pills and PT and mood swings. Starsky liked Angie and still had hopes they would work out, but if she didn't, his bedrock remained.

            "Well, if you ask me, she just doesn't know a–"

            _"All units in the area, 211 in progress at the Mini Mart, 2500 Overland. Approach Code Two."_

"That's just a few blocks away," Starsky said, sitting up straighter.

            "We're off duty, remember?"

            "We're cops, remember?"

            Hutch switched lanes. "Fine, but if we respond, you stay in the car." With no immediate answer, he cast a sharp glance at his partner. "I mean it, Starsky. You're not up for this yet and you know it."

            "Fine," Starsky muttered, and hung on as Hutch floored the gas and put up the gumball light. It was true; it would be a few more weeks yet before he'd be cleared for street duty, if then. A day of sitting at his desk still wore him out. But not backing up his partner didn't feel right, either, and he was sorry now he'd mentioned answering the call. For the time being, that meant Hutch responding, not Zebra Three.

            Hutch pulled the light back off as they turned the final corner, and even as they approached the market, Starsky could see a flash of movement in the alley that probably meant a fleeing suspect.

            "Hutch," he said tersely.

            "I got him." And then the car was shrieking up to the curb and Hutch was out the door, those long legs carrying him down the alley and out of sight in a few seconds.

            Leaving Starsky to sit and wait.

            He called in their response, put on the parking brake, pulled out his Smith & Wesson and checked it. The closest unit's ETA was another minute and a lot could happen in a minute. His own shooting had been over in seconds.

            Starsky got out and stood next to the Torino, trying to see past brick and mortar into the alleyways beyond where his partner was presumably chasing the bad guy. Assuming there was only one. There had been no movement in the alley since Hutch had turned the corner, which meant there probably wasn't a second suspect coming up behind him, but you never could tell how the criminal mind worked, especially a panicked one. Starsky fidgeted, rubbing absently at his chest. He should probably go in the shop at least, see how the storekeeper was. If he needed–

            There was a distant sound of gunfire, twice. Too far to tell what weapon.

            Starsky's heart slammed against his ribs. Hutch was in trouble, at the least in a firefight, at worst, gunned down. They should never have answered the call handicapped – you were supposed to back up your partner, and here he was…

            Starsky set off down the alley at the quickest run he could manage, something along the line of a disgustingly slow trot, his breath immediately a raspy wheeze.

            The gunshot had come from the east, the direction Hutch had gone. And as Starsky reached the corner, he could see the alley stretch all the way to the end of the block, traffic a distant motion in the opening. No sign of either Hutch or the suspect, but they had to have gone that way. Starsky picked up his pace a fraction.

            He made it a dozen feet before he realized he was in trouble. His heart was pumping desperately now, a physical pain against the wall of his chest, which soon took to spasming in sympathy. The seizing muscles compressed his lungs, leaving him gasping for air even as his steps slowed, then faltered. Forget running; between the exercise and the stress, breathing of any kind was becoming an issue. Starsky staggered against the wall and bent in half, trying to relieve the horrible pressure in his chest and the flashing spots of color in his vision.

            The roar of blood in his ears blocked out all sound around him. The first indication he had of company was the hands that seized his wrists, then kept him from flopping to the ground as his knees finally gave out. Someone – Hutch, he thought dimly – was behind him, propping him up against a less rigid chest wall, a hand splayed against his heaving ribs. Starsky's fingers dug into warm denim, sight completely lost now to the swirl of colors, chest on fire, terror overflowing. Where was the _air?_

            Lungs behind him expanded and contracted, offering a rhythm to follow, and Starsky frantically tried, clawing at fabric and flesh as he fought the fear further choking him. The hand on his chest calmly rose and fell with his attempts to slow his breath, sometimes pressing, sometimes easing, encouraging him by example, slowing down the racing fear, doing everything but breathing for him. _Breathe with me._

And just as he hovered on the edge of passing out, Starsky's muscles got the message. Just a little give, but air squeaked in past them, then again as they expanded a fraction more, in tune with the rise and fall against his back. Breathing by example. Starsky never had been able to ignore his partner long.

            Like the fading volume on a radio being turned down, the roaring grew fainter, patches of gray alley appearing between the popping colors. There was still a rock sitting on his chest, but some air was whistling by it, painfully and with great effort.

            "That's it, breathe in, feel the air coming…" The rushing blood was parting to let bits of a running monologue make it past. "…good, keep breathing with me. It's getting…"

            The world started to come back, as his interest in it dimmed. The struggle had left him exhausted and Starsky's head felt heavy. It wobbled for a moment before finding a spot to rest in the hollow of skin between curved collar bones. Across from him unexpectedly glared a scruffy looking man in black clothing, standing at an odd angle. It took Starsky a minute to realize the man was handcuffed to something on the wall.

And behind him, Hutch swallowed heavily, then growled in his ear, "You idiot."

Starsky took no offense, silently agreeing with him. Besides, even woozy, he still heard Hutch's worry. It was just a little setback, he wanted to say, no big deal, but his body was still working for enough air to stay conscious, let alone talk, and so Starsky settled for a penitent rub of Hutch's knee.

Hutch's answering curse was much softer and no longer sounded mad at all.

Nor was his grip anything but gentle until help arrived and they peeled Starsky away.

 

At least it wasn't the same hospital.

Hutch stopped his pacing to lean against the hallway wall and run his fingers through his hair. He didn't think he could have stood being in the same hospital where he and Starsky had spent the better part of May and June, where Starsky had died and come back to life. Of course, that meant they had to send for Starsky's records, and that the staff didn't know Hutch would be pacing out there with caged restlessness until he got some news, or that he even knew where the nearest coffee vending machine was. But still, he didn't think he could bear County Hospital just then. Not after all they'd gone through to get out of there.

Hutch took a deep breath, shoved away from the wall to pace. That idiot – what did he think he was doing? He'd promised to stay in the car; it was the only way Hutch would have considered taking the call. Starsky had only been on desk duty a week, still a month or so away from even considering being back on the streets. And who knew how much he'd just set that back with the stunt he'd pulled that afternoon? What was he thinking?!

Hutch made a face. Actually, he knew exactly what Starsky had been thinking. It hadn't occurred to Hutch as he'd fired the two warning shots to keep the suspect from ducking into yet another alley, that Starsky would hear the gunfire and worry. Hutch supposed he would have done the same thing, honestly. But it hadn't made it any easier when he'd returned with the suspect in tow to find his partner hunched against the wall turning blue. For a minute there, Hutch had thought…

Well, that wasn't important now. He'd gone in the ambulance with Starsky, seeing the color creeping back into his partner's face along the way, returning the faint smile as they went into one of the examination rooms. Hutch had stayed long enough to hear that Starsky would be all right, they just wanted to run some tests to make sure he hadn't damaged anything, then he'd retreated to the hall to wait. Starsky would be fine. Hutch knew that. It was only delayed reaction that was making him feel cold and shaky. He'd just really hoped not to be doing this again so soon, pacing hospital hallways restlessly while he waited for news.

He was so tired.

The door opened and Hutch straightened instantly, hands shoved in his pockets. The doctor who came out gave him a pleasant smile.

"Detective Starsky is doing fine. We want to run one more lung-capacity test, but so far everything looks great: no tearing, no oxygen-deprivation damage. I'd say this is just a temporary delay in his recovery."

Pressure eased, weights he hadn't even noticed on his chest lifting. Hutch nodded, hands clenching and unclenching out of sight. "So I can take him home tonight?"

"I don't see why not, unless this last test reveals something unexpected, but I don't think it will – it's just a precaution. He'll be ready in about two or three hours – why don't you go home and get him some clean clothes and have a bite to eat, then come back for him?"

Same-day release – what a luxury. Hutch took another deep breath. "Yeah, okay. Uh, c-can I see him first?"

"Sure." He was waved to the door.

Hutch stood a minute outside it, trying not to feel the déjà vu that threatened to choke him, then squared his shoulders and went inside.

He knew the function of every machine that lined the small room, but they were all silent now, tucked back out of use. Not even an IV stand stood beside the exam table, where Starsky in a hospital gown lay on his side, a thin blanket over him. He still looked hospital-pale from the weeks spent at County, but there was no sign now of his little episode in the alley. Nothing but the sheepish glance he gave Hutch as he appeared.

"Okay, lemme have it." Starsky's voice still sounded thin to Hutch's ears, but he wasn't feeling picky.

Or punitive, not with the relief pumping through him. Hutch shook his head. "I'd say just promise not to do it again, but I know how much that'd be worth."

Starsky eased over onto his back, studying him. A rueful grin finally twisted his lips. "Sorry."

"Forget it," Hutch said immediately. "You were worried about me – I can't get mad at you for having good taste." The tease earned him a snort. He came over to the bed, nudging aside Starsky's covered leg to sit on the edge of the table. "How're you feelin'?"

"Okay. Better."

The words fell off after that, unnecessary, as they sat together in the quiet room.

Hutch finally stirred. "Doc said they have to keep you a few more hours. I'm gonna run home and get you some clothes, okay?"

"They cut my sweater off – I'm runnin' out of clothes." Starsky was only partly joking.

"We'll stop by that thrift shop you like over the weekend," Hutch soothed, standing. "Anything else you want besides clothes?"

"Hamburger?" Starsky asked hopefully.

"That can wait." Hutch was trying to be stern but he was smiling. When worry like that started fading, the relief it left behind was almost a high. "I never fix 'em the way you like, anyway."

"Well, get yourself something – I'm not goin' nowhere for a while."

"I heard." He patted Starsky's leg. "I'll be back soon."

"Hey." Starsky's voice stopped him at the door, and Hutch turned back, waiting. "Don't answer any calls on the way home, okay?"

His smile softened. "Yeah," Hutch said quietly, and turned and went out the door.

The drive back was a lot quieter by himself, and it wasn't because he and Starsky talked so much. The quality of the quiet when they were together was different, refreshing. Now it just seemed empty.

Hutch shook his head at his fancifulness and drove on.

His own place was not much past Starsky's, and Hutch wearily debated stopping there to change. It didn't matter much to him that his jeans were filthy from sitting in that alley, but Starsky would care about his precious car being soiled. The plants would also be dying soon if he didn't water them, the mail needed picking up, and… Starsky was okay. He'd still be there when Hutch got back. He kept telling himself that, and sooner or later his heart would start to believe it. But the pull back to the hospital was always there, tugging at him like a physical force, and if he made the stop quick enough, he could still get back for the end of Starsky's test. His partner always hated going through them alone, no matter what he said. Hutch turned toward Venice and picked up speed.

Angie's apartment building came into sight, just a few blocks from his own, and Hutch slowed again. Starsky hadn't said he and his girlfriend were getting together that evening, but he hadn't said they weren't, either, and Angie had dropped in a few times in previous weeks with an unexpected meal or just to visit. Even if things were rocky, she should probably know Starsky was in the hospital, and a few minutes detour wouldn't make Hutch too late. Reluctantly, he pulled off into the parking lot beside her building and climbed out.

He'd only been there once when she'd invited them both to dinner the week before, but he thought he remembered… right, 331, one door down from the elevator. Hutch knocked on the door.

She was more beautiful than the girls Starsky usually tended toward, with straight golden hair and bright almond eyes. A small-town beauty queen, Hutch thought he remembered Starsky saying, but she could have probably made it in bigger waters, too. Instead, she'd moved to LA and become a librarian, of all things. Hutch found that more appealing than her looks, but the way she moved, the way her hair spilled over her curves… Well, he was a guy, after all, and hardly blind. He was just glad Starsky had met her first because she would have been a real distraction otherwise. Even now as the door swung open, he found himself staring into the frank eyes and trying not to look at the bathrobe-clad body.

Starsky. Right. Temptation vanished and Hutch cleared his throat. "Angie, I'm sorry to bother you."

"Ken, hi, no, it's no bother." Her body language changed immediately, from tentative to welcoming. "Come in." She stepped aside.

Hutch moved to just inside the door, as if he were on duty. Which, in a way, he was. "I, uh, I just thought you should know, Starsky's back in the hospital." As her eyes rounded with concern, he quickly added, "It's not serious – they're not keeping him overnight. He just… overdid it today."

She shook her head, honey tresses swaying, looking truly distressed. "I'm sorry to hear that. I wondered if he was ready to go back on duty yet."

Hutch shifted to balance on both feet, defensive. "He's been fine on desk duty, he just took off after a suspect today and the – _he_ wasn't ready for that yet." He didn't know her well enough to put down Starsky in front of her. Some people didn't understand.

Angie hid a smile. "Yeah, I can imagine that. We talked some about it. But I'm glad he's okay." A slanted look at him. "So… why are you here?"

Hutch raised an eyebrow at her, surprised by the question. "Well, I thought with you and Starsky seeing each other…"

But she was shaking her head. "Oh, no, we broke up. It's just been too much, for both of us, you know?"

He felt a blush creep into his cheeks. "Uh, no, I didn't. He mentioned you'd had a fight–"

            "That's not news."

"Well. I'll just… I'm sorry to bother you then."

"Hey, it's no bother. It doesn't mean I don't care. Although…" Angie took a step closer to him, the edge of her hair brushing his jacket. "Honestly, it was you I was always more attracted to."

This time, he really did find himself speechless.

She moved in even closer, until he could smell the faint trace of her perfume and see the flecks of green in her eyes. Eyes that… weren't his to stare into. Hutch jerked, freeing himself from the spell. "Angie, this isn't a good idea," he said gently. "You and Starsky just broke up. You might still–"

She was shaking her head. "We won't 'still.' It's over, Ken. I care about him, a lot, but I don't think I can live with the worry, you know?"

Yeah, he did know. Even now, with the certainty Starsky was all right tucked away inside him, Hutch could still feel the worry that went deeper, that never quite went away, that there was still some damage from the bullets that hadn't manifested itself yet, that he'd gotten Starsky back only temporarily, that another person with an axe to grind would finish the job. Hutch knew too well about living with worry.

Angie's hand was on his arm, her touch warm even through his jacket. "You deserve a little happiness, too, you know."

Happiness. His requirements for that had been drastically reduced since May. Hutch shook his head, feeling a little lightheaded as he did. Hadn't Kira said something similar? "Angie, this isn't–"

"Shh. I know what you're going to say. So what if it doesn't last past tonight? I want it, you need it, and David won't care. Why shouldn't we? I always wanted to…" And she leaned in and kissed him.

It had been months since he'd done more than idly think about women, and Hutch's body was ready. His mind was almost instantly flummoxed by the flood of _need_ that hit him and washed him away.

But Starsky… Hutch made a small sound of protest, trying to pull away. "Angie…"

"You've been doing everything for him. Let me do something for you. You'll be back for him in time," she breathed, a slip of warm air against his neck. "You need a break sometimes, too." And then kissed him again, deeper.

Yes, he did, and she and Starsky weren't together any more and _David won't care_. She understood and liked _him_ more… and then even that evaporated. It felt almost as good as what her hands were doing to his body.

            And the tiny voice of protest in his head smothered, Hutch silently surrendered.

 

            The test was done faster than they had expected, and an hour after he'd kicked his partner out, Starsky found himself impatiently watching the door for his return. Which wasn't fair, really: going to Westchester in rush-hour traffic, probably stopping off in Venice, maybe someplace to eat, too, then back to the hospital – it would be two hours, at least.

            Starsky made a face, glancing around the room. All the machines, the white walls, the acoustic tile, everything brought back memories he was just as happy not to revisit. Another hospital, but the same trimmings, the same flush of pain and remembered helplessness. No, definitely not something he needed just then. _Hutch, where are you?_

            Well, look, it wasn't like he was helpless to go anywhere without his partner. There was always a line of taxis in front of the building, and if he knew his partner like he thought he did, Hutch would have gone to Westchester first, which meant maybe, if Starsky hurried, he could still catch Hutch in Venice and surprise him. Yeah, that sounded good.

            Now, if he could just find some clothes…

            That turned out to be easier than expected. Apparently it wasn't the first such request the hospital had gotten, and he was soon presented with a set of scrubs. Doctor Starsky, he grinned. His ma would have loved it. It would do until he got home.

Ten minutes later, he was checked out and getting into a cab.

            "1027 1/2 Ocean," Starsky told the driver, and sat back with a sigh. Negative tests or not, his chest still ached from the earlier exertion and he felt short of breath. Normal, the doctor had said, but Starsky hadn't seen _him_ puffing for air. Still, a pair of those pills he had tucked away in his medicine cabinet and he would sleep through an earthquake, and it would be better in the morning. It always was.

            They reached Venice, and Starsky watched the familiar landscape go by. They were near Angie's, he realized, and grimaced. He should have called her from the hospital to tell her where he was. If she stopped by his place and didn't find him there, she'd be annoyed, and they argued enough as it was. Starsky hadn't figured out if that was because they were incompatible or because they both cared too much to let stuff go, but he was looking forward to finding out. Her patience with his limitations had been just what he'd needed once he got out of the hospital, and touched him in a way no woman had since… Kira…

            "Stop here for a second," Starsky said, leaning forward to tell the cabdriver, and frowned as they pulled up alongside the apartment building. The lot next to it was an open one, and in the row nearest the street sat Starsky’s baby, gleaming red-and-white in the moonlight. Apparently, Hutch had thought of Angie, too, and had stopped in to tell her what had happened. Starsky's face cleared; he should have known. His partner thought of everything. Well, he'd just surprise them both.

            He stuffed a bill into the cabbie's hand and climbed out stiffly, rubbing his chest as he caught his breath at the door. No stairs for him today, Starsky thought ruefully, and headed for the elevator instead.

            With any luck, Angie had cooked. She was good, almost as good as his ma, and a sucker for hungry men. Hutch could always leave him there for the night, or the three of them could go back to Westchester after. Good thing he'd seen the Torino or he would've missed the opportunity. Starsky grinned to himself as the elevator door slid open and he walked to Angie's apartment door.

            And froze at the sound of a groan from inside.

            What the–? Starsky felt a thrill of adrenaline and wished he had his Smith & Wesson with him as he raised his hand to bang on the door, but Hutch still had his piece.

            The groan was louder this time. And it didn't sound like pain. In fact, it sounded like…

            Starsky recoiled. But–

            A male voice this time. Definitely not in pain. Starsky's heart, however, clenched into an agonized knot in his chest as he recognized it. _Oh, my God._

            He stumbled back from the door, blind, dumb, only hearing, and each sound a searing confirmation of what he already knew.

            Back to the elevator, and Starsky sagged in despairing relief against the doors as they shut, cutting off the hallway, the door, and what he knew was going on behind it. It couldn't be… but he knew it was.

            But…

            _Oh, God_.

            The next thing he knew, he was staggering through his front door. There were vague memories of another cab, of drawing up into a corner of the back seat to try to ease in air that didn't seem to want to come, of hurting so badly he could barely give his address. But mostly it was a numb haze. Only one fact was becoming starkly clear. His partner had just betrayed him – again.

            _How could…? After Kira, I thought we…?_

_I thought._ Apparently he'd been alone in doing so.

            Starsky sank down onto his couch, his arms still wrapped around his chest. He didn't even know if it hurt inside or out anymore.

            Kira. He had loved Kira, and when Hutch had slept with her, it'd nearly torn them apart. Starsky could see now what he hadn't been able to then: that Kira had played them both, that Hutch had been so desperate for… something, that Starsky had been fooling himself that what they'd had was love. But still, Hutch had known Starsky loved her and had slept with her anyway. And it had taken a lot of talking and booze and some cold tears before they'd been able to move past that. The effects would probably still be lingering if the shooting hadn't abruptly rendered everything else moot.

            But Starsky had forgiven because he'd seen how helpless Hutch had been, both to explain himself, and to try to make it up somehow. That first intense flare of pain and perfidy had eventually faded enough to reveal Hutch was hurting nearly as much as Starsky was. And with both of them swearing it wouldn't happen again, Starsky had forgiven and they had moved on.

            And now Hutch had gone and done it again… while Starsky was in the _hospital_. Had maybe been doing it all along with Angie, laughing behind Starsky's back at fooling him. How low could a guy get?

            Hutch couldn't have meant it, not a single word he'd said after Kira. With those sad eyes and nervous hands, he'd fooled Starsky into forgiving him, but it hadn't been real. And if that hadn't, what else hadn't been over the years? His tolerance of Starsky's different tastes and weaknesses? His concern when Starsky was injured?

            The blood drained from Starsky's face. Oh, God, had Hutch taken care of him these last few months out of _guilt_?

            His chest felt like it was on fire and Starsky curled up on his side, trying to relieve some of the agony. It couldn't be. Hutch had held him in the alley just that morning, breathing with him, comforting him, _saving_ him. Starsky knew what he'd felt; there was no way that could all be an act.

But then, he'd known he could trust Hutch, too. The violation of that basic fact threw everything else he believed into doubt. And care, even honest, concerned care could come from a lot of motives and a lot of different kinds of people, including those who helped you up with one hand and stole your lady with the other. Starsky loved and trusted unconditionally, and wouldn't have believed Hutch might be any different.

You didn't conspire and cheat with the girlfriend of someone you loved, however. You just… didn't. Either you didn't cheat, or you didn't love. And Starsky already knew the truth about the former.

What did that leave?

            Starsky choked in one heaving breath after another and tried to escape inescapable logic.

            The rattle of a key in the door was the next thing he was aware of.

            Starsky pushed himself upright on the sofa and glanced around, confused. The room was dark, his lungs a little less strained. He must have dozed off, long enough for Hutch…

            Hutch.

            Starsky's expression hardened and he glared at the door as his partner walked in and flipped on the light, smiling at the sight of him. Not for long. Hutch paused a step inside the door, studying him more closely. "Starsk? You okay?"

            "No," he said shortly.

            Hutch shook his head, turning back to shut the door behind him. "Did it ever occur to you that climbing a flight of stairs by yourself might not be the best chaser to nearly passing out from lack of air?" he chided gently.

            The concern was as irritating as sand against sensitive skin. "Go to Hell," Starsky muttered, anger only growing as he got a grin for that.

            Hutch had turned back, depositing the bag he'd been carrying onto the floor. The clothes Starsky wished he'd never asked for, probably. "Maybe next time you'll wait for me. I went all the way back to the hospital just to find out…"

            He was finally realizing something was wrong. Gee, how perceptive. What had given Starsky away, the stiff way he was holding himself, or his scowl? Or maybe the daggers he was staring at his unwelcome guest.

Hutch blanched. Ah, here it came, and Starsky lifted his chin. But Hutch just fumbled a step closer and asked in a hushed voice. "Starsky, what's wrong? Did the test go bad?"

            So this was how they were going to play it. "The test was okay," Starsky said, with a tone as warm as Siberia. "Everything's great. Where've you been all evening?" Fine, if Hutch wasn't going to bring up the elephant in the room, he would.

His visitor blinked. "What're you talking about, all evening? I just left you at the hospital about two hours ago. I stopped by here for some clothes, picked up a sandwich, and, uh, I stopped by Angie's to tell her what happened." Starsky saw some color creep into his face, and his gut twisted despite himself. Hutch hurried on, no doubt to squelch his guilt. "I came back as fast as I could, but they said you'd already checked out. You should've waited for me, Starsky."

            Starsky squashed himself into the corner of the couch, feeling like he was backed into the corner of a boxing ring. "You stopped in at Angie's?" he asked in that same flat, cold tone.

            Hutch almost looked baffled as he took a step closer. "I didn't want her to be looking for you, but she told me you guys had split up last night. Starsky, what's going on? Are you sure the doctor didn't–"

            "She said we split up?" That distracted Starsky a moment. Angie had said they were through? That would have made her fair game and changed the situation immensely. But… they weren't through. Yeah, they'd had an argument, but who didn't? Hadn't he just been telling Hutch that afternoon they'd fought? But not that they had broken up. Yet Hutch had taken her word for it, without being surprised Starsky hadn't mentioned it, without waiting to ask his partner if it was true. Hutch had wanted to believe her… or had chosen to. What kind of a friend did that?

            "Yeah, isn't that what you were trying to tell me this morning?" Hutch looked baffled, concerned, everything but guilty. And that only fed Starsky's fury.

            "I said we had a fight," he spit out. "I didn't say you could–" He bit off the word with effort. There was a lot of ugliness in him waiting to spill out, but that wouldn't help anything, either.

            He knew from Hutch's expression the moment he realized Starsky knew, saw him pale, the horror that sprang into his eyes.

            And, for the first time in that conversation, felt a tiny nugget of satisfaction.

Hutch swallowed, hands spread pleadingly. "Starsk… she said you w-were–"

            "We are now." Starsky pushed himself unsteadily to his feet and glared at Hutch, face twisted in the anger that still pulsed through him. "I don't wanna see either of you again."

            Hutch gaped back at him. Apparently he'd been expecting another scene like last time, when Starsky, hurt and bewildered, had forgiven for both their sakes, suffering too much to lose Hutch as well as his lady. It wasn't hurt Starsky was feeling at the moment, though. "We weren't trying to g-go behind your back."

            "Yeah, you just waited 'til I was laid up in the hospital, probably figured that was safe." Starsky's voice was rising, reedy from the lack of air behind it, but no less a snarl. "Cut the stammer, _partner_ , I'm not buyin' it this time."

            Hutch still wasn't getting the message. "Starsk–"

            But Starsky just batted away his outstretched hand. "Get out!" He was trembling, probably as much weakness as rage, but he made sure there was no give in his expression or tone.

            Hutch stared back at him for a long moment, every muscle looking like it was stretched to snapping, then he let out a long breath. Resignation, finally. Starsky watched with private relief as Hutch put both hands up in surrender, bowed his head in a nod. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out, shutting the door behind him.

            Starsky sank back onto the couch, suddenly feeling strengthless. No, lifeless. Even in the hospital, the pain at its worst, had never felt like this.

            He'd wanted to vent his rage, to make Hutch feel as badly as he did, and in some part he'd succeeded. But it had gained Starsky no pleasure, nor provided a release from the pressure inside him that felt ready to burst through his skin. There was a sorrow in the man's face that still touched instincts in Starsky he couldn't shut off so easily. He still bled when Hutch was cut, and he would get no relief hurting someone who was still that much a part of him. Starsky was bleeding enough already. He'd just lost his best friend. There were too many ties between them to staunch the flow from as they were sliced through.

_Oh, God._ It was a groan of the heart. _This_ _hurts._

            Enough. Starsky lurched to his feet and into the bathroom, and jerked open the medicine cabinet. Bottles tumbled into the sink as he pawed through them, looking for… that one. The bottle was still half full; Starsky had weaned himself off the strongest stuff after the shooting as quickly as possible, not liking the way it knocked him out for hours at a time. But right now, that sounded perfect.

            It took effort for his uncoordinated fingers to get the top off, but Starsky quickly shook a pair of the tablets into his palm and threw them down his throat, followed by a handful of water. _Use as needed,_ the bottle said, and Starsky gave a hollow laugh as he stuffed it back into the cabinet. It was needed now, all right. What was torn flesh to a torn heart?

            He dragged himself into the bedroom next, and sank onto the edge of the bed. One sweep of the hand took care of the phone – there was no one he wanted to talk to – and then he lay down on his side, tucking his knees to him, and pulled the edge of the blanket up over him.

            _Why?_ That was what his mind kept coming back to, on a short loop. _Stealing my girl and breaking my heart once – I could forgive that._ And he had. Hutch had been silently suffering so much at the time, Starsky was still surprised sleeping with Kira was all he'd done. But maybe Hutch hadn't wanted him to forgive and forget. Or maybe he'd just wanted to see how far he could push Starsky before their friendship gave. _But why? Was it that much of a burden for you? Who're you punishing this time, Hutch?_

            It wasn't like the blond had never pushed him before. So many times and in so many little ways, like a kid who wanted to see how much his parents loved him. But Starsky had just figured that was how he was, and had accepted. Heck, considering Hutch had developed his sense of humor, twisted as it was, under Starsky's influence, Starsky figured he owed it to the guy to cut him some slack. It wasn't like Hutch ever seemed to have real doubts about how Starsky felt toward him, or he about Hutch's feelings.

            Not until now.

            _So why? Yesterday, I woulda bet my life you felt the same way._ He couldn't reconcile the events of that evening with the scene earlier that day, Hutch's chest against his back, struggling to get Starsky to breathe with him, his hands coaxing calm and air into him. _But you knew I couldn't forgive again. You knew, and you did it anyway._ How else was he supposed to take that?

            His thoughts were thinning, like melting strands of cotton candy, and Starsky blinked slowly, the sting of salt in his eyes and mouth. There would be no hope of them staying friends, let alone partners, not this time. You needed to be able to trust your partner, and that was gone for good. But still, even as the first swell of grief bore him into drugged sleep, Starsky couldn't help but keep asking.

            _Why?_

 

            It had been a long day.

            From waking up in his greenhouse, where he'd sought solace the night before, to the busy signal every time he'd called Starsky's, Hutch had dragged himself to work, distracted and distressed. The pull was strong to head to Starsky's instead and demand they hash this out, but Hutch knew just as certainly that was the last thing he could afford to do.

He'd seen that expression on Starsky's face only twice before: once when they had learned their old friend John Colby was a hitman and he turned on them, attacking Hutch. And then in Kira's apartment, when Starsky had discovered his partner there. It was the look of loss, of the hurt and anger of betrayal. And now, as Hutch had sworn it would never be, it was once more directed at him. Starsky would need some space to work through that, to get to where the feelings weren't so raw so they could talk, so Hutch could apologize, and he respected that.

But it was truly hard.

His energy had failed him after he'd left Starsky's, or maybe his resolve, and Hutch had sagged for a few long minutes onto the top step, cursing himself the fool for what he'd done. Starsky had gone through so much these last few weeks; he shouldn't have had this, too. And for what, a quick roll in the hay? Hutch couldn't even remember what he'd seen in Angie, then huffed softly. It wasn't exactly his eyes he'd been pleasing. But Starsky would understand the miscommunication and lack of bad intentions. He just needed some time. After ten years, Forest and Marcus and Slater and Gunther, Hutch refused to believe anything else.

Maybe he couldn't.

            No, they would be fine, he'd reassured himself as he'd driven home in the bland little car Merl had loaned him after he'd gotten rid of that ridiculous coupe. Starsky wouldn't have wanted Hutch to be borrowing his other girl this evening, too. Okay, it had all been massively bad timing, and a very stupid move on Hutch's part, that was obvious now. He'd been the idiot to let Angie get to him like that, and he deserved Starsky's anger. But this wasn't Kira; hadn't been love on Starsky's part, or selfishness on Hutch's. There'd been no punches thrown, no grief lined his partner's face, only fury, and the way his lungs sounded, he would be needing Hutch's help soon. This was fixable.

Hutch just hated that it had happened this way. Starsky's phone was off the hook, the chain would probably be on the door; he'd all but put the "Not Welcome" sign out. He'd been deeply hurt, and would need some time.

            And with the rest of the day stretching before him now, empty and dull, Hutch had too much of it.

            "Hey, Hutch, how's Starsky doing?"

            The questions started as soon as he walked through the squadroom door. It took a moment to realize they were asking about his hospital visit, and Hutch nodded wearily. "He's fine, just pushed himself a little too hard." And then Hutch had pushed him a lot further.

            "Tell him I said hi."

            He nodded again. He would as soon as Starsky was talking to him.

            From Dobey he got a sharper look. "Something wrong, Hutchinson?" Starsky wasn't on the schedule yet, coming in to do desk work when he felt up to it, so Dobey wasn't troubled by his absence. It was something else he was picking up on, and Hutch knew exactly what. He made an effort at a smile, hoping it wasn't too pained.

            "I guess I got used to having him back." That was absolutely true. Hutch had been working solo for weeks, but it felt different this time, distracting, lonely. The chair across from him had rarely seemed so empty before.

            Dobey wasn't finished. "We have a visitor coming to give a lecture on race relations at UCLA tomorrow. She's gotten some death threats before and the chief wants to make sure nothing happens to her. He asked for you personally, after the job you did with that ballet dancer."

            Hutch flushed. Protecting Anna had gotten personal, a very brief romance, which was the last thing he wanted to think about right now. Besides, protection detail meant nearly round-the-clock work, and he couldn't afford that right now, not with the precarious way things were between him and Starsky, and his partner's brief return to the hospital. "Sorry, Cap'n, I–"

            "I know," Dobey said, less curtly than Hutch expected. "You just take care of him. I need you two back on the streets."

            _Me, too,_ Hutch didn't say. He'd already botched the "take care of him" part.

            He counted each hour that passed after that. They had never seemed to go as slowly. And he wondered if Starsky was counting them, too.

 

            It was close to noon before he woke to the dissipating fogginess of the medication. Starsky stared at the ceiling, trying to remember where the nameless dread in him had come from.

            It returned again, too soon. The violent rage of the night before was gone, but it had left a heaviness behind, like a part of him had withered but remained there, a dead weight in his chest. All those times he'd feared Hutch was gone, once for weeks, and Starsky had never learned how to deal with losing a partner. Would every wake-up come with that feeling of knowing something was very wrong?

            It still beat the remembering. Starsky was tempted to roll over and go back to sleep. His healing body still craved great quantities of it and he could probably sleep all day if he really wanted to.

            And how cowardly would that be?

            Actually, there was something he needed to do, he just hadn't been looking forward to it. Starsky stared at the phone for a long minute before reeling the receiver up from the floor by the cord. He pushed the button to get a dial tone and punched in the number from memory, staring at the lusterless, gray day outside the window across from him. The receiver was cold in his hand, and Starsky rubbed the clammy sweat off his forehead.

_"Hello?"_

            "Angie." It was no effort to sound neutral; he couldn't seem to summon up any emotion at all. "What happened last night?"

            There was a moment of silence. Then, quietly, _"Oh, Dave. Hutch stopped by. He told me you were in the hospital. And–"_

"I know what happened. I just wanna know why."

            An even briefer hesitation. " _I was stupid, that's why. He said you'd talked about us and…and that we were through, and I got upset and, well, he was so comforting… But I should've never listened to him, not without talking to you first. I was just so blind. Can you ever forgive me?"_

He could say yes. It wouldn't matter much: they had only known each other a few weeks so there wasn't much to forgive or mend. But that weight in his chest was starting to crush his lungs, and Starsky dropped the receiver back onto the floor without a word. He buried the side of his face in the pillow and wrapped his arms around himself to keep from shaking.

            _He was so comforting._ Starsky had figured out what had happened before he called, but those few teary words had just torn a gaping hole in his numbness. _He said… we were through._ Even with Kira, Hutch had never lied. Of course, what did that matter, really, after sleeping with Starsky's lady behind his back? And knowing as he did that he wouldn't be forgiven this time, not after the last time.

            This was really it. And at the thought, there was a stab in Starskys chest more painful than any bullet.

"He's gone," he whispered into his pillow. Maybe saying it aloud would make it easier to grasp and take in. "Hutch's gone."

            Nope. His own voice, rough with sleep and emotion, sounded even more unreal than his thoughts.

            Woodenly, Starsky got up. And stared blankly at the room around him. Now what?

            This was ridiculous. Since when had he relied on Hutch to tell him what to do next, to motivate him to get out of bed? Besides in the weeks after the shooting. And every other time he'd been laid up, his partner looking after him. Not to mention his sheer pleasure the rest of the time in knowing he was going to a job he loved with a partner he…

            Never mind.

            _Aw, Hutch…_

            Each time he thought it was as bad as it was going to get, it got worse. With a thick gasp of air, Starsky shook his head and stood on heavy legs to stagger to the bathroom. He turned on the hot water and mechanically shed the scrubs he'd left the hospital in the night before. He had never changed into those clothes Hutch had brought for him, the ones Starsky wished with fervor he'd never asked for. But then he might never have found out what was going on behind his back, what his partner was capable of, and knowing was better than ignorance, no matter how painful.

            "Yeah, right," he muttered to the empty room.

            Starsky climbed under the hot water and held his face up to the spray. No, he would have wanted to know his partner wasn't trustworthy. He would just never have thought it was possible. Probably should feel stupid for his naiveté, or furious at Hutch's taking advantage of it, but there was only hurt and sorrow inside now, pushing deeper and deeper into him, like a drill burrowing through his gut. Starsky didn't know how deep it would go, but he knew what would gush out when it reached its goal.

            Starsky wiped the water out of his eyes and, lungs laboring in the densely humid air, turned off the water and climbed out. He'd forgotten to bring clothes to change into, and winced at the bite of air on his damp skin as he headed back to the bedroom for a pair of sweats. But after he'd dressed, there was the same question. Now what?

            Starsky took as deep a breath as he could, looking around the room. Well, his life was his own: maybe he should start with making his home his own again, too. He didn't really want Hutch coming by to pick up stuff he'd left behind, right? It would give Starsky something to do, anyway. Thinking was taking all his strength.

He crossed to his closet and dug out his old army duffel bag, then resolutely started packing it. Hutch's two shirts hanging in the closet, along with a sweater stuffed onto the shelf in the back. Next came several pairs of pants from the dresser, and socks he wasn't sure were Hutch's but suspected so. Then, the red sweater Hutch had permanently loaned him years ago? Might as well. And the shirt he'd given Starsky for Christmas the year before? They were reminders, too, weren't they?

The closet and dresser were both half-empty by the time he moved on to the bathroom.

            The truth was, Starsky admitted to himself as he brutally packed Hutch's shaving kit, that he hadn't lived his own life for a long time now. After all those years, he and Hutch were like a comfortably married couple, going through so much together, sharing the good and bad memories, leaning on each other, their plans and friends and lives all collective. Starsky wasn't sure he was prepared to face life without Hutch, to learn to stand on his own when he was still taking half a pharmacy just to make it through the day. He was definitely sure he didn't want to.

            And just as certain he had no choice.

            Starsky had to stop to blow his nose before going on to the kitchen, sweeping boxes of granola and bags of dried fruit into the duffel as went.

            "Never liked this junk anyway," he muttered to himself. As if that had been the point.

            Starsky tightened the top on the molasses before dumping it in, too. This purge would be a fresh start, for both of them. Hutch would get his stuff back, and Starsky would get his life back. Sooner or later, they would both find their places again. His life wasn't all about one blond.

            Starsky suddenly stopped packing. This inadvertently solved another worry, too. If the doctor didn't end up approving him for street duty, Starsky could always retire on disability now, no partner to worry about leaving behind. It would be a fresh start in more ways than one.

            "Yeah," he nodded to himself. "Lotsa possibilities."

            He'd probably even feel enthusiastic about them once the first shock of losing Hutch was past.

            Losing Hutch. As many times as he'd feared and faced that possibility, he'd never imagined it happening like this. Starsky swallowed, rubbing at his eyes again. But even if he stayed with the LAPD, Hutch would be mostly be out of his life now, besides the inevitable few brushes in the hallway. It was like a loss. Sure felt like one. If nothing else, he had lost his best friend, whether the real flesh-and-blood one or the image he'd thought he had.

            Starsky reached the living room, adding a framed picture to the nearly stuffed duffel. And pausing again as he reached the gym bag sitting by the foot of the couch. Hutch's overnight bag, which had seen him through several weeks of overnights while Starsky slowly got back on his feet. Some of Hutch's plants had died in those weeks of being away from home, Starsky knew, and his electricity had been shut off at least once due to unpaid bills. Hutch had even gotten sick as Starsky had started getting better, too rundown from looking after his partner to take care of himself. There was a lot of good in him, a lot of love.

            But what good was any of it if you couldn't trust him, if you didn't even know if that love was unselfish or just his needing you, too? Starsky stared sorrowfully at the bag, still trying to understand how Hutch could have done that to him, how he could have been so deceived about him, and knowing he never would.

            A quiet knock on the door broke his thoughts, and Starsky's stomach twisted hard as he looked up at the door. Hutch. There was no reason to think so, but Starsky knew it was him.

            He stared down at the duffel bag clutched in one fist, the gym bag hanging from the other. And for no reason he could have explained, suddenly shoved the overnighter out of sight behind the end of couch. Then, quietly, knowing he'd be heard, said, "Come in."

At least this time, he'd have the chance to say goodbye first.

 

            Half an hour before shift's end, Hutch had given up. It only took a minute to sign out and grab his jacket, and then he was finally on his way to Starsky's place by way of his partner's favorite taco joint. Eighteen hours should be enough for anybody to think, and Starsky didn't tend to be an over-thinker. And for that, Hutch was particularly grateful tonight. One of them raking him over the coals was plenty right now, and Hutch was already doing a fine job of it. A little forgiveness, some shared food and TV, and Starsky's no-nonsense acceptance that what was done was done, was just what Hutch needed to lift the cloud that had settled over him since the night before. Starsky always did that for him.

            Hutch found himself relaxing, body uncoiling from involuntary tension, as he climbed the steps to his partner's front door. Finally. He wished he could have done this sooner. Starsky had probably spent no better a day than he had.

            Hutch hesitated at the door, for the first time in a long time visiting instead of coming home, and finally penitently knocked.

            "Come in."

            That was a good sign. Starsky sounded quiet, too, none of the fury there from the night before. Thank God. Hutch wasn't up for another scene like that, not as tired and bruised as he was feeling. And lonely – only eighteen hours and he already missed Starsky fiercely. Gunther had taught him how much they needed each other, if nothing else.

            He unlocked the door, hefted the bag of tacos, and walked inside.

            Starsky was standing by the couch, a stuffed duffel loosely grasped in his hand, which was strange enough. The expression on his face was even odder, however, and Hutch stopped where he was, suddenly uncertain of his welcome.

            Then again, he still had some making up and explaining to do. "Starsky–"

            "Don't."

            That one word wiped away all Hutch's optimism and relief.

            Starsky set the bag down, wrapped his arms around himself, then perhaps realizing how defensive that looked, dropped them by his side. His eyes, though, dark and sober, never moved. "I talked to Angie. She told me what happened." He made a soft sound. "I guess it probably seemed like we were through after all my complainin'." He stared piercingly at Hutch. "But you coulda asked, or waited. You shoulda said no. But you didn't."

            Hutch's face twisted. "Starsk, I didn't–"

            "You didn't even tell me you slept with her. Only thing I can figure is, you knew we were still together. You knew… or you didn't care. Maybe you figured with me in the hospital, I wouldn't find out, anyway." Starsky shrugged, looking casual except for that awful expression in his eyes. "It shouldn't'a mattered. Either I got reason to trust you or I don't. After last time, I thought…" He trailed off, his throat working on emotions that weren't making it out.

            This was so much worse than Hutch had feared, it was almost unbelievable. The fury of the night before he could deal with, but this quiet, resolved sorrow scared him more deeply than anything had since those shots had rung out. Reason to trust? "Starsky," he whispered.

            Starsky took a breath, then his mouth twisted, a mockery of a smile. "Guess maybe I'm partly t'blame. I needed you too much not to trust you. So what kinda fool does that make me, huh?"

            Hutch stared at him, feeling like he was standing again in front of that damnable hospital window, watching his future die.

            Starsky swayed, but was steady enough to step back when Hutch made to move closer. "It's over, Hutch. Guess you were tellin' me that all along, but I'm listening now." That cruel smile again. "Least you won't be saddled with a gimp for a partner, huh?"

            Hutch's mouth was so dry he had to force the words out. "I don't want another partner."

            "I do."

            Hutch's eyes winced shut, feeling the blow as surely as if Starsky had hit him again. Although his pain still shone brilliantly in his eyes, Starsky's expression had hardened. He meant what he was saying. Hutch's jaw worked, incredulous, despairing. "Starsky, let me explain, will ya? I'm sorry, I know I was stupid, b-but that doesn't mean–"

            "You don't get it." Starsky's stoicism was starting to break, his eyes glistening as he held out the duffel bag. "Nothing you can say is gonna change what you did. Whether you meant it or not, you took something from me, and I haven't got a lot left, Hutch. Feelin' that way about somebody and keep havin' it thrown back in my face – I don't have that in me anymore."

            This couldn't be happening, not again. "I wasn't… Starsky, I wasn't. I didn't know," Hutch managed.

            "Maybe you didn't, but that doesn't make it okay." Starsky was barely looking at him any more, like it was too painful. "Just… let it go, huh?"

            Hutch stared at him, face hot, his chest cold and cramped. "So that's it? Ten years, just let it go because of one mistake?"

            "Two," Starsky said bluntly.

            Right, two. Maybe Starsky had never even forgiven him for Kira, the shooting just setting it aside for a while. And that hurt in a whole different way.

            "Go home, Hutch."

            It was said far more softly than the similar dismissal the night before, but this one was so much worse. It wasn't spoken in the heat of anger. This goodbye was final.

            _This can't be happening._

            Starsky was still holding the duffel out to him, and Hutch finally forced his stiff fingers to curl around the strap, not knowing what was inside and not caring. Take the bag and let the rest go. How was he supposed to do that?

            But while there was grief and misery in Starsky's expression, there was also resolution. He had been thinking, and this was what he'd decided.

_It's over._

            Hutch turned away from him, not feeling anything but the shock of the newly mortally wounded. There was something in his hand as he reached for the doorknob, and he had to look at it to figure out what it was. Starsky's key.

            Hutch gently put it down on the table by the door, along with the bag of tacos, and walked out.

            _Go home_.

How could he when he was leaving home behind him? Or at least the only person who'd ever meant home to him.

Who no longer wanted him there.

Hutch went.

 

Starsky sat and stared at the gym bag on the floor until his eyes grew grainy and unfocused. Then he stood, walked into the bathroom and took a handful of pills, and crawled into bed.

Three minutes later, he came back out into the living room, shoved the bag deep under the couch, and returned to bed.

It didn't help.

 

He'd gone, but not home.

Huggy had taken one look at him, blinking in the bright lights of The Pits, and went to shoo a flirting couple out of the back corner booth of the bar. He ushered Hutch into their place, pushing him down on the bench on the far side, the wall against his back. Huggy disappeared again, returning a moment later with a beer. He slid it in front of Hutch as he took the opposite bench, then leaned close.

"Lemme guess: Starsky."

Hutch took a shaky breath, wrapped his hands with care around the mug, and stared into the foam.

Huggy's shadow fell over his whitened fingers. "Hutch? He's not…?"

He shook his head with a jerk, then lifted the beer unsteadily and took a long swallow, splashing a little on the table. The foam usually stuck to his mustache, but he really didn't care just then what he looked like.

Apparently not good from the gentle pat Huggy bestowed on his wrist. "I'll keep 'em coming," the barkeep said quietly, and slid back out of the booth to leave him to his thoughts.

His thoughts. Hutch gave a soundless laugh. His thoughts seemed to have run into a brick wall as solid as the one Hutch had nearly pancaked his car into in his distraction on the way over.

_I hurt him_.

The pain, the lack of mobility, the potential loss of Starsky's job hadn't been enough. No, Hutch had had to go and take Angie from him, too, a twofer loss of his girlfriend and partner in one action. Maybe Hutch could go and crash the Torino while he was at it, make it a clean sweep. That would really desolate the man.

Who was he kidding? He'd seen Starsky's eyes. It couldn't get much worse than that.

The mug was empty, and another magically slid into its place. Hutch drained half of it in one swig, willing the alcohol to fuzz his brain. He was still thinking way too clearly.

And then there was the matter of the breach between them, but Hutch wasn't strong enough to even approach that one, not right now. If they were truly finished, no longer partners or friends, he couldn't make up what he'd done, ease the pain he'd put in Starsky's face. He couldn't make sure Starsky recovered fully from the shooting, or that he was taking care of himself. He couldn't watch his back on the streets to make sure it didn't happen again.

He couldn't go to Starsky now, when his own heart was shattering.

No, he wouldn't even think about that right now. It all hurt, savagely.

            _He's mad._ No, Starsky had been mad the day before. _He's hurting. I promised him it wouldn't happen again, but it did_. I _did. And now he's wondering if he can trust me again._

_God, let him trust me again._

Hutch swallowed, rubbed his eyes. No, this wasn't about him. As unbearable as a permanent estrangement would be, he deserved whatever he got. Starsky was the one who mattered here. If it helped him slam the door on his partner, Hutch wouldn't fight it. But as firm as Starsky had sounded that evening about it being over, Hutch had seen the truth in every pained look. Anything Starsky did to him now would hurt them both.

            What did you do when cure and poison were one and the same?

            Hutch emptied the mug. Maybe he was being selfish again, but he hoped with all his soul Starsky didn't arrive at the same answer he did.

            He drained the beer that replaced it without even tasting it, and bleakly signaled for the next.

Starsky had shuffled out to get the paper and nearly tripped over the package.

"Some detective you are," he grumbled, eyeing the paper-wrapped parcel on his welcome mat before he crouched down with a grunt to pick it up.

No address. No writing of any kind on the brown paper. It was the kind of package you usually called the bomb squad in to open for you, except Starsky recognized the knots in the twine.

            "Parting gift?" he said acidly. There was nothing he wanted from Hutch now, nothing the man could give him that wouldn't just make things worse. Starsky hefted the package, surprised at how light it was, staring at it a moment. Then he went back inside for his scissors.

            The paper unfolded neatly as the twine was cut, obviously wrapped with care, revealing a non-descript box. Curious and wary, Starsky lifted the lid.

            The old teddy bear inside made his heart twist and clogged his throat.

            Terry had given that bear to Hutch, not to Starsky, but it had spent a lot of time with him those last few months, while he'd been in the hospital. It always seemed to show up when Starsky needed it, and then was tacitly reclaimed by its owner when Starsky got better. Hutch's way of keeping the bequest Terry had given him with Ollie, to take care of her fiancé after her death.

            "So what's it this time, Hutch?" Starsky whispered, reaching out to touch a worn fuzzy ear. Consolation in lieu of a partner? An apology? A compensation for Angie? Didn't Hutch realize even Ollie couldn't fill any of those roles?

            But as he clasped it to his chest, Starsky was still glad for the gift. He needed something to hang on to just then.

            He just hated that Hutch had known that.

"Captain?" Hutch stepped into his boss's office with the same dream-quality feeling that had followed him all morning.

Dobey waved him in, then took another look at him and frowned. Probably at the sunglasses, but Hutch didn't take them off. The light felt like acid on his eyes, and he'd already scalded them enough that morning.

He hurried on before Dobey could ask. "I'd like to take the protection case."

The older man squinted at him. "I was just about to send Bonhomme out on it. What changed your mind?"

Hutch opened his mouth, closed it again. "Personal reasons," he finally said.

"Does this have anything to do with Starsky calling in sick this morning again?" Dobey asked pointedly.

"No," Hutch said. He pointed at a file on Dobey's desk. "Is this it?"

The captain handed it to him. "You sure you can work with a hangover?"

Hutch's head snapped up, a move he quickly regretted as his stomach heaved.

Dobey made a face. "You think I got this badge out of a Cracker Jack box?" he growled. "I was picking up drunks when you were still in grade school."

"Yessir," Hutch said quietly. "I'm fine, Cap'n." He'd slept off a good deal of the booze in Huggy's upper room already, in fact, after the barkeep muttered something about "toasted, roasted, and now you'll be hosted" the night before, then prodded him upstairs instead of calling him a cab. That morning, Hutch's brain had worked too well. As he'd detoured on the way to work first to his house, then Starsky's to make a delivery, he'd even felt the first cracks in his denial that what had happened the night before was permanent. And the awful pain that trickled out had him quickly burying the whole thing deep before it fell apart, or he did. Tuck it away in a box, label it just another stupid nightmare, and you could keep going. Except it felt like _now_ was the dream, not the night before.

Work. He needed work to ground him. As much of it as possible.

Dobey was still studying him skeptically, and Hutch endeavored to look as hale and alert as possible. He needed this right now. Going back to his empty apartment would be intolerable.

The captain finally sighed. "All right, Hutchinson. But if you need any help, I expect you to call."

He nodded minutely, setting off another grumble from his stomach, and clutching the file, hurried out.

There wasn't much in the file about Dr. Lorraine Cates, Ph.D. in sociology, founder of a lobbyist organization on civil rights issues and a highly sought-after speaker. Her ethnicity and beliefs made her a prime target for a lot of sick people who didn't agree with her, Hutch knew, but unfortunately, there was nothing new about that. She was arriving that afternoon, which didn't give him much time to make arrangements, and departing the next morning, with a dinner and presentation that evening at UCLA. No events in between, easing his job a little, but he still had a lot to do. Hutch grabbed his jacket and hurried out the door, hesitating as he realized no one was following him. Despite himself, he glanced back at their desks, his and Starsky's, facing each other. Empty.

Setting his jaw, he kept going. He'd walked alone for twenty years. He'd get used to it again.

 

He'd not only lost his best friend, he'd lost his chauffeur.

Ollie safely tucked into his bed and a tasteless breakfast sitting heavy in his stomach, Starsky had made up his mind: life goes on, and he was going with it. It was a beautiful Southern California day, and there were errands to be run, things to do, hours to be filled. He wasn't going to stop living just because part of his life had died.

Except he'd forgotten there were practical sides to having a partner. Like a twenty-four-hour ride.

Starsky stood and stared at the driveway with the tight feeling in his throat he was starting to realize wasn't going to go away with rest and medication. No, he hadn’t just had a partner. A lot of partnerships stopped at end of shift. He'd had a Hutch.

Who was gone now, and all Starsky could think about was not having a ride? He laughed, the sound of someone strangling, and bounced the useless keys in his hand. What did it matter; everything reminded him of all he'd lost. _Do you have someone to drive you?_ the doctor had asked. _Oh, sure_ , Starsky had replied without a second thought. _Just try to keep him away._

Well, he'd succeeded.

Starsky took a slow breath, stretching his lungs to their limits before letting out the air. Well, it was a nice morning and the closest store was only a half-mile away. He could walk it. It was time to start doing things for himself, anyway.

Independence, it turned out, was highly overrated. Walking that half-mile one way unburdened wasn't too bad. By the time Starsky trudged out of the market with the single grocery bag of necessities and stared up the hill that led back to his place, it seemed the other side of the country. And forget about the stops at the barber and bank he also needed to make, he'd have trouble just getting from his curb to his bed.

Starsky detoured to the phone booth nearby, and had dialed the first three digits before he realized who he was calling.

He hung up the phone, swallowed hard. _You can do this. You haveta_ _do this._

He carefully picked up the receiver again and jabbed the dime in again, dialing another number, this one a little more buried in his memory.

"Uncle Al? It's me, Davey. Can you do me a favor?"

Life without Hutch – he had to get used to it. It just would have been a lot easier if the man weren't hard-wired into his every instinct, and every thought.

Starsky sat down on the curb to wait and smile wanly at the kids who went by on roller skates, and tried not to think.

 

Hutch stood on the tarmac with his hands loose and ready at his side, ignoring that persistent draft at his back. The last time he'd been in harm's way without Starsky watching out for him was when he tracked Gunther down, but Hutch hadn't cared much then whether or not he was in danger.

Come to think of it, he didn't now, either.

But his subject would, and she deserved better than ambivalence, so Hutch kept his gaze moving, hand near his holster, and waited.

The plane touched down right on schedule, probably the private plane of some big school donor, and Hutch's stance tightened a fraction as the small entourage made their way down the stairs. If he concentrated on work alone, everything else almost disappeared in the assignment.

"Dr. Cates." He stepped forward to meet the woman he recognized from the photo. "I'm Detective Hutchinson, LAPD." He offered his badge even as he divided his attention between her and the scene around them.

"Detective," she said, more coolly than he expected. Her voice was strong, faintly accented, and didn't sound any happier than she looked.

He might have cared in other circumstances; now she was just a job. "This way, please." He waved toward the waiting cars, then took the lead while listening for her to follow.

A limo was waiting, and while he'd wanted to follow after in a separate car, nearly losing a protected witness once whom they'd escorted similarly had taught Hutch it was best to stay as close to the subject as possible. He let her duck into the back seat of the limo and followed right after.

The drive to the hotel was about twenty minutes, and she spent ten of them going through some notes. Then she just sat, frowning at him while he watched the passing traffic and buildings. There wasn't any danger inside the car, so Hutch kept his gaze firmly on the passing streets, and the windows of the buildings they went by. Let her look at whatever she wanted.

"I don't need protection," she finally spoke up, just when Hutch was beginning to hope the whole ride would pass in silence.

He barely glanced at her. "UCLA's board and the mayor don't agree with you."

"I don't like getting involved with the police."

Hutch did let his gaze jump back to her then. Funny, he hadn't noticed it at first, but she reminded him a lot of one of Starsky's temporary partners, a lovely woman by the name of Meredith. Who had never looked at him with that degree of mistrust, not even when Hutch returned to duty and reclaimed his partner.

In a week, he could have done better, but the wound was too fresh and Hutch flinched at the reminder. And Cates noticed, her eyebrows drawing together fractionally. "Neither do I," Hutch answered immediately. He didn't think she would hear the hollowness in his voice. Nobody would have except the person who'd put it there.

There was a long pause. She was assessing him now, and Hutch didn't want to know what she saw. At least his sunglasses, appropriate for the July sun, kept his eyes hidden.

            The next time he glanced back at her, some of the coldness had thawed from her expression. "I'm always deriding those who judge based on expectations and stereotypes, and I'm doing the same thing with you."

            It surprised him, despite his apathy. Well, there was no reason to be at odds if they were going to spend the next twenty-four hours together, right? "Apology accepted," Hutch said with a nod.

            "I didn't apologize."

            She almost made him smile at that. Then they passed a Torino on the street, and Hutch lost the feeling as quickly as it was gone, his heart leaden again. They didn't say another word the rest of the trip.

            But Cates kept watching him. And Hutch, despite himself, had a pretty good idea this time what she saw.

Starsky hadn't seen his uncle and aunt since they had dropped some food by shortly after his leaving the hospital, and there was a lot of family news to catch up on. Starsky let it wash over him, a soothing warm stream that, for one, didn't remind him of his former partner.

Until the inevitable questions about how Hutch was doing, that was.

By the time Al dropped him off, Starsky's head hurt and his throat ached, and that was nothing compared to how his heart was doing.

He had to keep busy. He was exhausted from the walk, but sit still too long and he might shake apart. If he kept moving, maybe he could use up the restlessness that was gnawing at him. Of course, activity was a tall order when you were recovering from nearly dying, but…

Starsky searched the room around him for something to occupy his hands and mind, just shy of desperation. The new model he'd bought just before Gunther's hit would work, except he didn't think he had the patience or the steady hands for that just now. Balancing the checkbook? Right, like he could concentrate on all those numbers. Cleaning would take more energy than he had, and besides, it reminded him too much of his purge the day before. With one foot, Starsky shoved the gym bag a little farther under the couch end table without looking at it. Out of sight, out of mind.

He wished.

Starsky's gaze fell on the window and the driveway beyond it, and he drew a sharp breath of relief. He couldn't drive his car, true, but that didn't mean he couldn't work on it. Having been off his feet so long and with the way Hutch drove, the oil was probably long overdue for a change, and the belts and plugs and electrics would need tightening. Perfect.

Starsky darted around the house, gathering supplies, then stopped for a minute to slow his heart and gasping breath before heading outside.

The fresh air did feel good. Someone was mowing the grass down the street, and Starsky glanced at his own lawn, realizing for the first time that it was neatly trimmed. It could have been any of the guys from the station, or his uncle, or any other number of friends, but he knew without question that it wasn't. Chauffeur _and_ gardener.

Starsky ducked his head and continued on to the Torino.

He had always enjoyed working on his car, and even with his soreness and decreased mobility, the oil change procedure was a familiar and comfortable routine. Starsky waited for the oil to stop draining, then replaced the filter and put the drain plug back in. The fresh oil followed. Good as new. At least something in his life was.

Starsky set his jaw, then checked the other fluids. All fine, and he moved on to the battery. The leads were a little corroded, always a problem with the proximity to the ocean, and Starsky fished out a screwdriver to scrape off the gunk. He usually did that for Hutch, too, as the blond didn't know his battery from his brakes, but Hutch would just have to–

The screwdriver skidded off the lead, stabbing deeply into the palm of his other hand.

Starsky let out a yelp, then started cursing as blood started trickling onto the motor. "Of all the stupid…" As if there hadn't been enough holes poked in his body already that year. He grabbed a clean rag from the pile beside the car and wound it around his hand, grimacing when it didn't take long for the material to stain through. He'd had a tetanus shot recently, but it would need stitches, which meant a trip to the hospital. And him without a chauffeur.

            Waiting alone for the doctor to see him.

_Do you have someone to drive you?_

All the memories of those familiar corridors and staff who knew him and Hutch by sight.

_I see Detective Hutchinson is listed as your next of kin, would you like me to call him?_

Having to listen to the doctor for once, no nursemaid hovering nearby to catch every detail of care.

_I'll just give this list of medicines and instructions to your partner._

The fear and euphoria he'd felt the last time he'd been at the local hospital, after Hutch had been shot by that teenager. Starsky had vowed then he'd never take his partner for granted again, just as he had every other time he'd nearly lost Hutch…

            No, even if he found a ride, he couldn't go to the hospital. Swallowing nausea, Starsky slammed the hood of the Torino shut and pulled himself up the stairs into the house, his hand cradled to his chest. It was time to call another friend. One who wouldn't stop on the way to make out with his girlfriend. One he still trusted.

            But Starsky had to dial twice this time, too.

 

            It was almost 11:00, two hours after her speech had ended, when Lorraine Cates finally shook the last hand and turned back to Hutch.

            "I'm ready."

            He led the way, checking around doors and corners before they went. While she'd spent the afternoon in her hotel room reviewing her presentation, Hutch had memorized the hotel layout, pictures of suspected threats and area KKK leaders, and the quickest route to the nearest hospital. A good cop only made protection detail _look_ easy.

            It had been one of the hardest days of his life.

            They got to the back elevator, the one the staff used, and Hutch reached for the up button when a hand on his stopped him. Surprised, he glanced at Cates.

            "I'd like to take a walk first, please."

            He hesitated. The first and strongest instinct was to say no – outdoors was the easiest place to launch an ambush. There was no possible way he could protect her from every side or from a shooter in one of the windows above. But his job wasn't to keep her prisoner, either, only to protect her wherever she went.

            And she'd said “please”.

            "Okay," Hutch said, called it in, and then waved her to the hallway that led to the back entrance. Cates gave him a small nod and went.

            The back door led into an alley, and Hutch turned right without hesitation, heading toward the nearest street. They emerged onto a brightly lit sidewalk, the traffic passing them still moderate at that late hour. Placing himself on Cates's right, between her and the street, Hutch did a subtle visual sweep of the area, then focused on those spots he would have chosen if he were after a target.

            It was a few minutes before she finally spoke. "I think better when I'm outside."

            Hutch nodded. He understood that.

            Cates was watching him again, but he'd noticed she did that with everyone. Probably the sociologist in her. He cleared his throat, figuring he could at least muster the effort once. "Your speech was good."

            One of her eyebrows curved. "Thank you. I've given it about a half-dozen times, and I polish it a little more each time."

            "The part about Medgar Evers's family was particularly powerful."

            Her other eyebrow went up. "You know, I keep underestimating you, Detective Hutchinson."

            Hutch smiled faintly. "Apology accepted."

            "I didn't apologize."

            He shook his head, eye catching momentarily on a shadow that moved, but it was just a drunk in a doorway.

            "Something's been bothering you ever since I got here, though, hasn't it?"

            Hutch swiveled back to her, startled, then stony. "It's not related to you, Ms. Cates," he said flatly.

            She hesitated, inclined her head. "All right."

            They walked on, turning a corner. It was only a wide circle around the hotel's block, but at least it would get them back in another fifteen minutes or so.

            "Parasites! All of you, parasites!"

            A sudden flurry of movement from the direction of the street, and Hutch moved instantly between it and Cates. A man, yelling epithets, launched himself at them from between two parked cars.

            Hutch's heart doubled its pace even as adrenaline cleared his thoughts.

Not armed. Bigger than him. White, mid-forties, slacks and a dark shirt. Hutch catalogued the details automatically even as he tackled the advancing threat, going for middle-of-body mass and those reaching arms. They landed heavily on the sidewalk, the man under him, Hutch feeling the air go out of him with a _whoosh_.

He scrambled to flip the man while he was dazed, and got one wrist cuffed before it seemed to occur to the attacker to struggle. The other arm clocked him in the chin, and he had to blink his eyes clear before grabbing for it. Hutch quickly gave the arm a wrench and cuffed it. The man rolled onto his side, nearly dislodging Hutch as he tried fruitlessly to free himself, and something glinted on the sidewalk under him. Hutch pulled it out gingerly, and grew cold.

A knife. The man had been armed, after all.

"We're gonna kill you all! We won't let–!"

Already steps were pounding down the street toward them, a second detective shadowing them farther back and a beat cop attracted by the sounds of struggle. If the attacker had been a little faster, or not alone, they would've been too late.

Hutch kicked the knife out of reach under a nearby car and gripped the man's arms tightly to keep his own hands from trembling, before looking up at his sub. Cates had backed up against the storefront and was watching with wide, stunned eyes.

"Are you all right?"

She nodded wordlessly.

Hutch turned to the arriving back-up, helping them haul his catch to his feet before releasing the man to the officers. "Take him in. I'll write up the report tomorrow. Knife's under there," he pointed.

He watched them drag the still-screaming man away, taking the moment to catch his breath before he dusted his hands on his dress slacks and rubbed his jaw, and returned to Cates's side.

She was already getting over her shock, putting a worried hand on his arm. "Are _you_ all right?"

"I'm fine. We should head back to the hotel."

She nodded again, and let him guide her around the next corner, the quickest way back.

            _He was armed._ That wasn't what had made Hutch’s hands shake, though. It had been the thought of going out like this, with no one to care. _No, not no one. Your partner. A man shouldn't die without his partner._

A man shouldn't cheat on his partner, either.

Cates cleared her throat, reminding Hutch he had other business just then. "Thank you."

"It's my job." He sounded hoarse.

"That doesn't stop me from being grateful."

Touché. Hutch bobbed his head.

"I know it could happen. I've gotten some calls, read the letters. But you still don't expect it, you know?"

No, you never expected it.

He'd nearly gotten killed that night because he was working solo. And the only part of that that really bothered him was the working solo.

Hutch glanced at Cates. "When you spoke about people the movement has lost, it sounded personal."

"It's always personal when someone is killed just because they look like me."

The curt answer silenced him.

Cates returned his sideways glance, seemed to consider him for a moment, then spoke again more softly. "One of those people was a good friend of mine. He was tortured before they hanged him."

Hutch closed his eyes, willing back memories by force. "I'm sorry."

"So am I."

The hotel came into sight down the street, a small knot of uniformed officers gathered in front. Security would be increased for the night. Hutch was still watching the men when he spoke. "I lost a friend yesterday."

She didn't seem surprised at the revelation. "Good friend?"

He was silent for a moment, but not because he was trying to figure out the answer. "I don't know how to go on without him."

"Is he…?"

Hutch shook his head. "I… made a mistake. A big one."

"We all make mistakes."

"I was already on probation." He smiled humorlessly. "I can't blame him."

"Did you want to hurt him?" Her gaze was unrelenting.

At least Hutch had no doubt on that count. "No."

"Are you better off going your own ways?"

That one was harder. He was a better person because of Starsky, but was the reverse true?

Yes. Even when Hutch had doubted that, he'd trusted his partner's judgment it was so.

"No."

"Then you can still get him back."

He shook his head heavily. "I've tried. I don't…" Hutch swallowed. "It's too late."

"No." Cates stopped, forcing him to stop, too, and looked at him. "Your friend's still out there. Kim isn't. And even that hasn't slowed me down. If you want something bad enough, if it's meant to be, you have to keep trying until you get it."

Hutch stared at her. He almost believed her, but hope hurt almost as much as the despair. Then again, she probably already knew that. "I want him back bad enough," he said softly.

She looked satisfied. "Good."

They started walking again, reaching the alley. Hutch opened the door and held it for her. "You're a tough lady," he said, trying to smile, but his earlier hasty patch job was failing, his heart breaking into pieces, and he no longer had it in him.

She did smile. "Sorry."

            He huffed. "Apology accepted," Hutch murmured, then turned away so she couldn't see his face and led the way inside.

 

            "This isn't so bad." Jace sounded way too cheerful as he did unpleasant things to Starsky's palm.

            Starsky, for one, had lost interest in the matter as soon as the doctor had brought out the needle, and was busy staring at the muted TV Broadhurst had made him turn on. It wasn't holding his attention at all, but it was at least some small distraction from the disconcerting feeling of stretched skin as Jace worked.

            "Just one more… There." Jace sat back, and Starsky reluctantly tilted his head to take a look at the doctor's handiwork. Four small black stitches held the bruised skin together like the socks his ma used to darn. Starsky examined it with sick fascination, still expecting pain but feeling only tightness and pressure.

            "Thanks. I think."

            Jace grinned at him. "You probably won't thank me later tonight when the shot wears off and it starts to hurt, but it'll be fine in a week or so, just a little scar. I'm glad you called me, though – who knows what dirt you jammed in there with that screwdriver?"

            Nice thought. Starsky grimaced. And then started as something caught his attention on TV. Just a flash of blond hair, but he'd looked for it in enough dark alleys and busy shootouts to know it instantly.

            The news was showing some sort of event, a woman giving a speech, and just for a moment, Hutch in the background, looking tense and alert. Working. Going on with life. Probably glad to get out of the office his injured partner had tied him to those last few weeks.

            Everything but Starsky's hand hurt.

Jace's voice drew him back. "So, you going to tell me what's going on?"

"Whaddaya mean?" Starsky asked dully, flicking off the TV.

"I mean, I'm usually the second person you call, except for half the time when Ken's already here. Is he on a case or something?"

"Or something," Starsky agreed vaguely. He curled his hand gently, then gave Jace a sheepish look as his friend grabbed his fingers to keep him from making a fist.

"Do you want to start the bleeding again? I swear, you two…" Jace grumbled as he taped a square of gauze over the stitches, then wound a strip over it and taped that.

_You two_. Starsky flinched. That was how most of their friends knew them: where one was, the other was sure to be close by. Yet another change he would have to get used to.

Restless, he rose to his feet and wandered into the kitchen. "You want a beer or somethin'?"

"Sure. With the stuff you've been taking lately, though, you'd better be having a Coke."

Starsky made a scoffing sound and dug two bottles out of the refrigerator, setting them on the table before grabbing the bottle opener. Then pausing, not certain how to progress with one hand bandaged.

"Here, I'll do it." Jace had followed him in and took the opener from him, shaking his head but not commenting on the two beers.

A memory: those first few days home from the hospital, exhausted and barely conscious, unable to even brush his own teeth or get up from the bed by himself. It had taken a while before Starsky had strengthened enough to at least do the basics, but some things his partner had quietly kept doing for him, like fixing meals and opening bottles. Chauffeur, gardener, nurse, and cook. The list kept getting longer.

How was he going to replace all that?

Starsky would have settled for filling in the gaping hole in his heart.

"Something's wrong." Jace had stopped after opening one bottle and was watching him now, and no longer just asking.

Starsky looked up at him, suddenly too miserable to keep pretending anymore. "He's gone."

Jace blinked. "Ken? What do you mean, gone?"

"I kicked him out, told him I didn't wanna see him again." Starsky sank down onto the kitchen chair, his legs no longer willing to hold him up. His chest felt tight once more, but his eyes burned even worse. So much for life going on. He'd forgotten to consider if he even wanted it to this way, alone.

Jace took the chair opposite him. "For God's sake, why? You love him."

And that was the catch, wasn't it? No matter what Hutch did, Starsky still loved him. Didn't want to, didn't think at first he still could, but ten years' worth of collecting love for somebody would take at least that long to get rid of, wouldn't it?

The threatening tears didn't fall, but the words started to, first a trickle, soon a flood. Starsky hunched over the kitchen table and let them pour out. Kira and Angie, and forgiveness.

"Mercy isn't supposed to be for those who deserve it, Dave."

"I can forgive him, but how 'm I supposed to forget what I know about him now?"

Hutch betraying everything Starsky thought he'd known about his partner, twice.

"Are you saying he's the opposite of what you thought he was, or just that he has some flaws?"

"'Some flaws'? How about not bein' trustworthy?"

Hutch begging him for forgiveness anyway, but then disappearing, the glimpse on the TV the only time Starsky had seen him since.

"So if he would've come back that evening, you would've forgiven him?"

"No. But it woulda been easier knowin' it still mattered enough to him to try."

The corroboration of Starsky's suspicions that should have hardened his heart only broke it.

"I don't think it would've been easier, Dave."

"Yeah… maybe you're right."

And the conundrum of knowing he couldn't live with a partner like this, and not knowing how to live without him, but having run out of choices.

"I always needed him a lot more than he needed me," Starsky whispered.

Jace's expression was full of empathy. "He once said the same thing to me about you."

And now both of them were alone. _Mercy isn't supposed to be for those who deserve it_.

No. Starsky wished it were that easy, but forgiving when he was still nauseated by the thought of what Hutch had done wouldn't help either of them.

Starsky twisted the tablecloth in small, tight circles, just like he felt inside. "I don't know what to do without him anymore, Jace."

"Well, if you really can't forgive him, you do the only thing you can do. Pick up the pieces, keep going, and let time heal. Maybe take a trip back to New York for a little while, clear your head."

Or maybe transfer, move, start over. Everything in his life was saturated with Ken Hutchinson. You couldn't just cut out 75% of your life and act like nothing had happened.

Jace got him the box of tissues from the bathroom and then just sat with him in silence.

Chauffeur, gardener, nurse, cook, and comforter. For weeks, Hutch had been fixing him tea, turning down his bed, helping him change and tucking him in. Jace stayed late, doing the same things, but they brought no consolation this time. Starsky still felt bereft as he curled up in bed in the silent house.

But life did go on, and Jace was right, he had to go with it. And acceptance brought with it the first glimmers of peace, and the reminder Starsky still had some good friends like the young doctor, improving health, and a job he loved that he could do anywhere, including a neighboring precinct.

Everything but what he wanted most.

            Aching with loss, Starsky plunged into sleep.

 

The streaming sun tickled his eyelids, and Hutch's face twitched briefly before he cracked his eyes open.

Not his room.

It took another minute for enough of his brain to awaken to recognize the hotel room. Staying in the hotel with the person you were protecting wasn't required, but it was recommended. And any excuse not to go home right now was a good one.

Yawning, Hutch dragged a hand through his hair and stumbled into the bathroom to shower and dress.

Twenty minutes later, he was walking down the hotel hallway, glancing at room numbers. Cates's plane was due to leave in a little over two hours so they'd have to hurry, but he had a feeling she was the kind who didn't take long to get ready. She was no-nonsense and not a little prickly, but Hutch found himself liking her. No, more than that: beholden to her. Cates had made him realize he wanted to survive this, even fight back and regain his partner's trust. She'd made him believe it was possible, and for that he would have to thank her before she left.

Hutch reached her door and knocked softly. A maid rolled by with her cart, and Hutch dredged up a smile for her. It surprised him; he didn't think he'd had any left.

No answer from the room within. Probably sleeping in. Hutch knocked again, louder. The private plane wouldn't leave without her, but it was his responsibility to have her there on time.

Still no answer. Hutch fidgeted, loath to intrude on her privacy, but he couldn't stand out there indefinitely. He had a key and used it, announcing his entrance as he stepped inside the darkened room.

The bed was rumpled and empty, the bathroom door beside it cracked open. At least she wasn't still sleeping. Hutch crossed to the bathroom and knocked on the door. "Dr. Cates?"

No answer. Not a sound.

Frowning, uneasy all at once, Hutch nudged the door open. It knocked against something.

A foot.

"Lorraine!" Hutch lunged through the door, pulling up short at the sight of her sprawled on her side on the bathroom floor in her robe. One sleeve was rolled up, a tie just above the elbow, and an empty syringe glinted next to her other hand.

"No!" He grabbed her wrist, disbelieving, and recoiled as his finger touched cool flesh. She was already stiffening with rigor.

"No," he whispered, cursed. Not now, not like this.

There were faint track marks underneath the fresh one, and the signs were there now that he put them together: her irritability, those wide brown eyes, the little he'd seen her eat at dinner. There was no indication of foul play, and the paraphernalia was still sitting there on the sink, the stench of fresh-cooked heroin lingering in the air.

He'd thought she was stronger than he was.

            It was several more minutes before he stiffly stood and went to call it in.

            There were reports to fill out, questions to answer, a statement to give. Hutch did it all quietly, expressionlessly, automatically. He didn't look when they wheeled her body out, only nodded when they confirmed his assessment of accidental OD, and left when Dobey finally said he could go.

            There would be no drowning in alcohol at Huggy's that night, or screaming at the ocean, or throwing every breakable in his kitchen. He was beaten, had failed not only his partner but even his job, all he'd had left. _If you want something bad enough, you have to keep trying until you get it._ Yeah, right. All Hutch wanted now was to crawl home.

            He didn't even notice this time how empty the house was.

 

            Starsky knocked, then stuck his head in the door. "Cap'n, you have a minute?"

            "Starsky, I was just about to call you. Come in." Dobey waved him inside, setting aside the paperwork he'd been working on and looking up at him, then at his bandaged hand. "What happened to you?"

Starsky glanced at the appendage, shrugged. "Little accident fixing my car. Cap'n, I wanna put in for a transfer."

Dobey didn't look surprised. In fact, he looked… distracted. Grave, even before Starsky spoke, and the detective's gut twisted briefly. That usually heralded really bad news.

"Sir? Somethin' wrong?"

Dobey steepled his fingers, leaned forward. "Starsky, I don't know if you heard about Hutch's assignment the last two days, but he was in charge of security for a young lady, Dr. Lorraine Cates."

            Starsky dropped the energetic facade. "Yeah, I saw her on the news last night," he said tiredly, settling into one of the chairs across from Dobey's desk. "Politician?"

"Civil rights crusader."

"Good for her. About the transfer–"

            "There'd been some threats against her by white supremacist groups – that's why I put Hutch on the case." Dobey hesitated, twisting his pen in his hand, and Starsky frowned, not liking where this was going no matter what came next.

            "Look, you don't have to…" Starsky's eyes narrowed. "What happened?"

"Hutch found her dead in her room this morning," the captain said quietly.

            Starsky sat up. "They got to her?" Hutch, even working alone, was better at his job than that, unless they'd gone through him first…

            Dobey shook his head. "It looks like the death was accidental – heroin OD."

            Starsky sank back in the chair, swallowing a sigh. Sometimes the people they protected were their own worst enemies. And heroin on top of that – Hutch probably wasn't taking that too well.

            His boss cleared his throat. "Starsky, I don't know if you've talked to Hutch since then–"

            "No," he said flatly. Here it came, and he steeled himself for the pitch.

            But there was no fire in Dobey's eyes, nothing but an unexpected sadness. "He took it… hard."

            Starsky had figured no less, but he stirred restlessly. He was just finally resigning himself to a separate life; the last thing he needed was to bring his former partner into it again. It was a little bit of closing the barn door after the horses got out, but Starsky could still guard what remained intact of his heart. "Cap'n, Hutch can take care of–"

            "I wasn't finished, Starsky." The bluntness silenced him instantly. "Hutch asked for this assignment. He said he wanted it for 'personal reasons.' Now, you probably know better than I do what that means, but I do know this: he's falling apart. If I didn't know better, I'd say the job was all he'd had left, and that just bottomed out on him. The last time I saw him like this was in the hospital, three months ago." A pointed look that wasn't lost on Starsky. "But then he was missing his partner."

            Starsky glowered a warning at him. "I know the story."

            "Do you? Did you see him dying with you, Starsky? Because what I'm seeing is, it's happening again, and this time you're nowhere in sight!"

            Starsky's eyes hardened and he sat up. "Cap'n, this is between Hutch and me, and with all due respect, you don't know what happened. This was Hutch's idea, not mine."

            "I don't care whose idea it was or who started it, Starsky. This isn't grade school and I'm not your principal!" A pause. Dobey fidgeted, and his gaze dropped. "But I am your friend. And as a friend, I'm telling you, Hutchinson needs you."

            He backed himself into the corner of the chair, feeling his wounds again. "I can't." Starsky knew his voice was barely audible but couldn't seem to muster the volume. "Cap'n, you don't know what you're asking."

Dobey nodded slowly. "Maybe you're right, maybe I'm asking too much. You're still barely out of the hospital."

Which made the betrayal all the keener. Starsky nodded, hurt and anger reasserting themselves.

His boss continued soberly. "But don't forget, he spent most of that time in the hospital, too. I don't know what's going on between you two, but I do know this: that man would take a bullet for you and count himself lucky. You'd better weigh that carefully against whatever Hutch did to you if you want to live with yourself." Dobey looked him in the eye before turning away to retrieve his paperwork. Implicit dismissal.

            Starsky leaned forward, his body stiff, the blood pooled in his feet. "Cap'n–"

            "Get out of here, Starsky." It wasn't said angrily, only with some disappointment, and Starsky stared at him a bewildered moment longer before obeying, automatically walking out of the office… and stopping dead in the hallway.

            _Did you see him dying with you?_

No, he hadn't seen Hutch in those first days while Starsky had hovered between life and death, and had no wish to. It'd scared him every time he'd thought about it. He'd never doubted Hutch cared. Even angry and hurt, Starsky knew better than that, and every crisis they went through reinforced that amply. But what about the rest of the time? The day-to-day secrets shared and choices made and time spent made up the bigger part of their lives, and were too precious to waste on someone he wasn't even sure he could trust.

            _It's happening again._

That sure sounded like the Hutch he knew, though, thinking with his heart. It certainly wasn't the sign of someone who didn't care. And the thought of him being lost like that again… God help him, it still scared Starsky. There wasn't enough anger in the world to erase that.

            Hutch was stronger than most people realized. Dobey could be overreacting. Hutch did have a tendency to bond with and bleed for people, and if he was taking that woman's death hard, Starsky would have expected no less. He would get over it. He'd get over losing a partner, too.

But… that didn't mean he wouldn't go through Hell first. Or come out changed on the other side. And not in a good way. Stir the embers long enough and something would form out of them, but it might be something unrecognizable.

            Transfer request forgotten, Starsky started toward the elevator. Maybe Dobey had read too much into Hutch's distress at the failed assignment. Even the little things could hit him hard sometimes, and it had taken some experience for Starsky to know the difference. Maybe Hutch had already snapped himself out of it and was just off sulking.

            _That man would take a bullet for you._

            But maybe it also wouldn't kill Starsky to stop by his former partner's place and check on him, just to make sure. Regardless of what Hutch had done, after all their years of partnership, Starsky owed him at least that, no matter how much it tore at already open wounds to do so.

            And as much as he hated to admit it, it would make him feel better, too.

 

            The shot glass of amber liquid caught and reflected the setting sun. It would have been pretty if he'd bothered to look at it.

            Hutch didn't, lifting the glass and downing its contents in one gulp, repressing a tremor as the alcohol hit his empty stomach. There was a reason he didn't drink the hard stuff very often. The last time he'd touched it was after Van died, when Starsky had come over, taken one look at him, and poured him a drink.

            Hutch had done it himself this time.

            His ex had deserved better. Van had been a hard woman, cruel, manipulative. And as warm and alive as anyone he'd met before and since. She had deserved better than to die on his living room floor, murdered by those she had crossed. But then, Lorraine hadn't even done anything wrong and she'd died, too, an even uglier way than a bullet. She hadn't deserved that, either. And Starsky…

            Hutch took a shuddering breath. He wasn't going there.

            The sky was rich shades of pink and purple now, fading to blue and then black near the top of the window. If the row of buildings across the street hadn't been in his way, he could have watched the sun extinguish itself in the Pacific. As it was, Hutch saw its trailing rays disappear behind the concrete and brick barrier, drawing its light down after it.

            His chest was tight, the only thing he could feel.

            There would be decisions to make. After Starsky's incredible return from death, Hutch had thought he was ready to throw away the letter of resignation he had kept in his drawer that past year, but somehow he'd never done it. It would save him that much bother now, at least, but that was the easy part. Far harder was what would come next. Unlike a few months back after their impromptu resignation from the Department, this time he'd be looking for a new job, a new life, alone.

            It didn't seem to matter, though. Not the thought that he had to find work, nor that he would probably have to relocate to do so. His partner was gone, his job had just crashed and burned. LA no longer had anything to offer him. What did it really matter what streets he ended up driving if he was driving them alone?

            Hutch shifted his face back toward the window and stared at the darkness creeping ever closer to the earth. He knew that feeling, intimately.

There was a knock at the door.

_Starsky_. He'd probably heard about Cates and came to say he was sorry, maybe end things a little more gently than they had left it before. As if anything he said now wouldn't just be salt in the wound. Hadn't they done enough damage to each other already?

            Hutch didn't move. No, he didn't want to see Starsky, not anymore. He'd done everything he could those past few days for his partner, given all he had over the years, and it hadn't been enough. There was nothing left. Let the body rest in peace.

            The doorknob rattled, a key unlocking, and Hutch sighed wearily. Apparently, he wasn't being given a choice in the matter. He tried to brace himself for what would come next, but there wasn't anything solid enough left to lean against.

The door opened. A sudden intake of breath: Starsky hadn't expected to find him there. So why'd he come _?_ Hutch wondered with dull curiosity. Duty, probably. Maybe Huggy or Dobey had called him. Maybe he'd just planned to leave a note. Or maybe he'd forgotten to pack something in that obscenely stuffed duffel Hutch had shoved in the closet, unable to stand its sight.

            Starsky's breathing was loud in the quiet room. Come to think of it, he hadn't been up to Venice Place since the shooting – all those stairs. He had to be hurting. Hutch stared out the window at the waning sunrise and couldn't feel a thing.

            Time passed. The door quietly shut, Starsky on this side of it, then soft footfalls came toward Hutch. The couch creaked softly as Starsky leaned against it, probably shaky from his climb, but he didn't sound winded when he spoke.

            "Hutch?"

            A conversation. Starsky wanted a lot from him. Hutch took a breath, relented, and dug into himself for an answer. "Yeah."

            Another long pause.

The window glass was warm against the back of his hand where they touched, the shot glass cool in his fingers. He wished Starsky would leave, but didn't have the strength to kick him out.

            His uninvited guest stirred. "Dobey was worried about ya."

            Dobey. Was Starsky so determined to make him bleed one more time? Funny, though, how you got to the point where you hurt so much, you didn't feel it anymore. It was like his heart had been cut out.

            Hutch didn't answer. Starsky would get the message soon enough; Hutch could already hear him shifting his feet impatiently. He didn't seem to want to be there any more than Hutch wanted him there. And yet, he wasn't walking out the door. What more did he want?

            Starsky cleared his throat. "Hutch… what really happened with Angie?"

            Ah. He still had a question. Hutch didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

            He could tell Starsky the truth again, for all the good that had done. Starsky had already said nothing would change what he'd done, and that was true. They'd hurt each other enough, anyway; what good would rehashing the past do? It shouldn't be too much to ask to be left alone now and not hurt any further. Hutch didn't think he could bear any more.

But despite the little bit of anger and wounded pride he had left in which to wrap himself… He'd been the one to wound Starsky. And for all Starsky's bravado, Hutch was still keenly aware of the pain it hid. That was something he never had been able to ignore, even now when his own burden was crushing. Maybe there was one thing he could salvage from all this for Starsky, and for his partner's sake – no, for both their sakes – he would try.

            Hutch took a breath and turned away from the window to stare at the dim shape that was his partner. "I told her you were through with her. She got upset, I made a play, she fell for it." He was a better actor than he'd thought. His voice hadn't even wobbled.

            He could sense Starsky's anger across the room even without seeing him clearly. Hutch had just killed his last chance for a reconciliation and he knew it, but there hadn't been any real hope for that anyway. Starsky had arrived already on the defensive. He could go away now with his righteous anger to keep him company, and a lady who wasn't worth it.

            Starsky moved, turning back toward the door. "See ya around," he said over his shoulder.

            And so it ended.

            The anger was gone, but the hurt was so deep, Hutch was drowning in it. Maybe that was why he couldn't feel anything.

            But the tears came anyway.

 

            A knife inside jabbed Starsky with every step he took toward the door. He didn't know why he'd come, why he'd done this to himself. Maybe he'd asked for it, but the truth still had a sharp edge, and he'd already been bleeding.

            The truth…

            Starsky stopped, his hand on the doorknob, and stood there, thinking. Angie had told him the same story Hutch just had, that Hutch had led her to believe she and Starsky were through, then "comforted" her in her distress. Hearing it from them both should have removed any doubt.

            So why didn't he believe it?

This wasn't what Hutch had said that first night when he was desperate for Starsky to exonerate him. Maybe he'd just been desperate enough to lie then, but maybe… Maybe it was that he just didn’t have anything left to lose now.

            Torn, Starsky turned back to look one more time at the man who had once been his partner.

            Hutch was crying.

            Silent tears slid down his face, their trail reflecting the setting sun. That was it, no emotional sobs, no heaving distress. Hutch didn't even seem to be aware of what he was doing, as if his misery had overflowed on its own simply because it had run out of room.

            Starsky was the one who shuddered in reaction at the sight, like a blade through his gut. It hurt worse than his mangled flesh, and for a moment he didn't even know if it was his pain he was feeling or Hutch's.

            What he did know was that he was sick of hurting.

Suddenly furious, Starsky stormed across the room to the window and grabbed Hutch's arms in a bruising grip, giving him a sharp shake. Something glass fell and shattered at his feet, but he didn't even glance at it, didn't care about anything but the man in front of him.

            "Now you listen to me." Starsky's voice trembled, emotions too complex for even him to sort out. "No more sayin' what I wanna hear or don't wanna hear or protecting anybody. I just want the truth. Did you tell Angie we were through?"

            Hutch's face suddenly reddened and he came alive, throwing off Starsky's hands. "So now you want the truth?" he shot back.

            Starsky stuttered a step, startled, then recovered himself quickly. "We never used to lie to each other," he said stiffly.

            "What do you expect when you don't believe the truth?" And then Hutch seemed to catch himself, or maybe he'd just exhausted his burst of energy. "Why don't you go ask Angie?" he asked far more quietly. And he pulled into himself again, withdrawing against the window like a wounded animal going to ground.

            Any other time, Starsky would have gentled at that, growing frightened for the man and backing off. But Hutch didn't have the right to play injured party this time, and the defensiveness just fueled Starsky's outrage. "How 'm I supposed to believe somebody who went behind my back, huh?" he raged back.

            Hutch winced. And for a few long seconds of mounting fury, Starsky didn't think he'd get any more answer than that silent stare, until he heard, very softly, "I never lied to you before tonight."

Starsky gritted his teeth. "Did you tell Angie we were through?"

            "No."

            He held Hutch fast with his gaze as surely as he had with his hands. "Did she tell you we broke up?"

            "Yes." The answers seemed to come easier now, as if Hutch had resigned himself to the truth. For Starsky had no doubt now this was the truth.

            "Sleepin' with her was her idea," he said bluntly.

            No hesitation now. "Yes." The tears and the anger had all dried up. There was no sign of any emotion whatsoever. And that was misleading in his partner, Starsky knew. The worse he was hurting, the more he shut down, which meant right about now he was probably dying inside.

            Starsky stood, listening to the hurt, his face twitching in struggle. He hadn't been really mad, not in Dobey's office, not at Hutch's lack of response, not since that first night. Even now it had been frustration more than fury. He didn't want to care, not wanting nor able to bear Hutch's pain on top of his own. But whether he was stupid or masochistic or just plain weak, he couldn't walk out on Hutch, either. Not like this.

Starsky's voice and posture slowly softened. "Tell me, all of it."

Hutch seemed to need to gather himself for that, although for all the effort, his words were a monotone. "I stopped at her place to tell her you were in the hospital. She said she was sorry to hear it, but didn't know why I'd dropped by. I told her I figured since you two were dating she'd want to know, but she said you‘d split up, it wasn't working out." Hutch paused, gaze sliding away, and Starsky's eyes narrowed, but it didn't take long to realize who Hutch was trying to protect. "She said… I was the one she was always attracted to, and that I deserved some happiness, too, and you wouldn't care. The next thing I knew, we were on the couch." He ran down like a wind-up doll that had reached the end of its string.

No surprises in the details, Starsky realized with a start, not from what he knew of his partner or of Angie. No excuses, either, just a recitation of fact. Hutch was still where he'd been sitting when Starsky had first arrived, propped against a pile of pillows on the seat by the front window, his face half-tilted toward the glass, seemingly emotionless.

_Does he care that little?_

_Or… did he care that much?_ Starsky hadn’t wanted to be right, but up close, it was even more obvious this wasn't apathy or anger, for all Hutch's belligerence. It was devastation.

"You should've asked me," Starsky said helplessly, taking a step closer.

"Yes."

"It hurt, Hutch. After Kira…"

Hutch flinched away from him. "I know." He was down to a whisper. "I'm sorry."

Starsky spun away from him, disturbed and bewildered. He didn't want another apology, but he didn't know what he _did_ want. Certainly not this frighteningly defeated version of his best friend. Taking his frustrations out on Hutch like this wasn't justice. It was cruelty.

Okay, Hutch had done something stupid and hurtful, particularly after Kira, after Starsky's long recovery. Starsky was vulnerable these days and Hutch knew it. But Angie wasn't Terry. She wasn't even Kira. Hutch's not caring about his feelings had hurt a lot more than whatever he'd done with Angie.

But… Hutch hadn't known they were still dating, probably hadn't even realized Starsky would care, which was dumb but not unfeeling. And he was still recovering from Starsky's shooting, too, not quite steady emotionally at times. Unsteady people tended to lose their balance easily. Hutch had probably been overdue for a fall.

It was the indifference, though, that Starsky had said he couldn't forgive. But, he glanced back at his bruised reed of a partner, there couldn't be a lot of doubt left that Hutch cared. Maybe even too much: he'd probably retreated into work the day before just to keep himself going, and his sacrificial lie just now had nearly sent Starsky out the door for good. It had probably been all he had left to give his partner. And Starsky had nearly missed it.

Besides, although Starsky had fought it hard, when it came down to it, he was punishing himself at least as much as Hutch with his refusal to forgive. And Starsky was tired of hurting. 

It was part selfishness, but also part tentative forgiveness when he finally lifted a hand, hesitated, then fit it familiarly against Hutch's cheek.

            Hutch dragged in a gasp of air and shut his eyes. The touch seemed to both hurt and soothe him for a moment. But then, as if he couldn't bear the contact any longer, he wrenched away, rolling to his feet to face Starsky.

"Don't."

            Starsky stared at him, baffled. "Don't what?"

            "If you're going to l-leave, just go."

            "I'm not gonna leave," Starsky protested.

            "What're you doing here, Starsky?"

            "I came to see you, dummy. I was worried about ya."

            "I thought you said Dobey sent you."

            "It wasn't an order, Hutch," he said, exasperated. "Why are you makin' this so difficult?"

Hutch was quivering. "You were the one who kicked me out, remember?"

            Starsky didn't like being on the defensive, and his resentment was still close enough to easily return. "You were the one who slept with Angie, remember?" His lungs protested his yelling, but it was Hutch's expression that pulled him up short. "Hutch–"

"Get out." Hutch pointed at the door. "I didn't ask you to come here."

            "I'm not exactly enjoyin' this, either."

            "Then leave!" His face should have been livid, but it was almost white.

            Starsky's expression twisted. He wasn't the only one who used anger as self-protection. There had been enough anger already, though. "Not like this," he quietly entreated.

            Hutch didn't seem to know what to do with that. Whatever numbness he'd found earlier was gone, and with his anger also stolen, he'd just been left defenseless. If Starsky didn't fix what he'd just done, he really would be leaving his partner dying.

"Hutch…"

            "Please." A half-motion again toward the door, then Hutch's hands fell back to his side and curled inward, as if he were trying to keep himself together. His pain was exposed and raw now, but if Starsky hadn't been so interested in protecting his own hurt, he would have seen it the minute he'd walked through the door. "Starsky, please," Hutch repeated in half the volume.

That faltering "please" did it. Starsky's last reservations slipped away. "No."

"What do you want from me?" It was a cry of desperation.

"Nothing," Starsky said gently.

            Hutch's expression changed, and for a moment, Starsky thought his partner might actually hit him. And then it passed and his fists loosened and shoulders bowed, nothing left but utter defeat.

            This wasn't the way Starsky wanted it, either. Contrition growing, he moved close to him again. "Hutch," he said softly, and waited until dead eyes met his. _God, what have we been doin' to each other?_ He'd been too busy nursing his own hurt to see his partner's, and if Starsky was honest, he could imagine Hutch had been doing the same thing at Angie's. He met his partner's gaze steadily. "I'll make ya a deal. We forget the last two days and start over, right now, clean slate."

            Hutch looked at him in disbelief.

            Okay, he deserved that. "I forgive you," he tried instead. Starsky was starting to think it was understanding he had lacked, not forgiveness, but if that was what Hutch needed, he could do that.

            Hutch seemed to shrink even more. He'd lost a lot of weight during Starsky's recovery, almost down to his Academy size again, but this was the first time Starsky had thought he looked small.

            Starsky slid a half-step closer, in Hutch's space now, close enough to see how bloodshot his eyes were and to smell the whiskey on his breath. Probably the same bottle Starsky had poured from after Van died. "Okay?" he asked carefully, craning hopefully to meet Hutch's gaze as it slid away a moment, then back to him. "Forget Angie. She's not worth this. Just you an' me again, partner, huh? I forgive you… if you'll forgive me." It was starting to feel more like a request than a proposition. If Hutch had damaged their friendship through weakness, Starsky had nearly finished the job with his pride.

            Hutch was still looking at him like he didn't quite trust the offer. Probably remembering Starsky's unambiguous declaration that their friendship was finished, but they both needed to take a chance for this to work. Starsky had done his part now, and he held his breath, waiting with sick anticipation for Hutch's choice.

Then Hutch was suddenly crushing him, his face bowed against Starsky's shoulder, his fingers squeaking across the leather of Starsky's jacket.

            And Starsky's soul took off like it had been let out of a cage.

            He didn't believe it at first.

            A minute ago they had been yelling at each other. That one gentle touch from Starsky had brought it all back, every bit of the fear and fury and frustration, but mostly that awful, scalding, choking pain. After that, it was simply damage control, trying to get away from Starsky before Hutch lost what little restraint he had left. But the guy wouldn't budge.

            And then, "I forgive you"? Had Starsky really said that? And meant it? Because Hutch couldn't even imagine the cruelty of believing that and then having it taken away again.

            _You an' me again, partner_. There was more, but that was what he heard. Especially, _partner_. The anger was gone from Starsky's face, replaced by gentleness Hutch didn't think he'd see again.

            He meant it. Forgiveness, partnership, love: Starsky was offering it all.

            The risks of getting hurt again if he'd misunderstood were suicidal, but Hutch couldn't resist. It was one of the easiest and hardest things he'd ever done.

Hutch grabbed his partner and held on tight.

            "I'm sorry," he breathed, as heartfelt as he'd ever said anything in his life.

            "Me, too," Starsky murmured back. "I should've heard ya the first time."

            "I would never have done that to you again." It was easier to talk about it in the dark room, wrapped in Starsky's forgiveness.

            A small rub of hair against the side of his neck. "I wouldn'ta believed it, but I _heard_ you, and then she said you were the one who told her we were through."

            "She lied," Hutch said bitterly. Starsky had heard them that night? Hutch hadn't even thought to wonder how he'd known. No wonder he’d been so furious then, fresh out of the hospital and walking into that. Hutch's cheeks burned in shame at the thought.

            "I know. I should've believed you over her, except…"

            Except Kira. How long would she haunt them? As long as Hutch's thoughtlessness let her, at least. "I'm sorry," he repeated helplessly.

            Starsky winced closer to him. "Don't say it again, huh?" he whispered.

            Hutch shook his head, no answer coming. So this was what it felt like to be loved unconditionally. He'd never been as aware of it as that moment, the contrast between the earlier despair and this silent, tenacious love so startling, he was finding it hard to breathe. Hutch's mind was churning and his bruised heart had started to beat painfully again, and it was a high unlike any he'd felt before.

            And intensely humbling.

Starsky's arms had threaded through his and tightened against his lower back, nothing tentative in their grip. He never had done things halfway, and that more than anything convinced Hutch the offer of forgiveness had been real and total. His head still wanted to understand why now, what he'd said this time he hadn't before, and couldn't make sense of it. His soul, however, didn't care. All that mattered was that he had his partner back. He reached up to rest a hand against the back of Starsky's neck, rubbing it lightly in lieu of words he didn't have.

_Thank you_. To whoever was listening, to Starsky later when he could utter it in a steady voice, that was all Hutch wanted to say. Starsky chuckled wetly as if he'd spoken aloud, and Hutch found himself smiling in response. They even had laughter again, he marveled. _Thank you._

            The living room clock ticked in the silence. They were starting to droop, and it Hutch took a minute to realize his partner was holding up a good bit of his weight and in no shape to be doing so. Hutch immediately straightened, shifting his balance so he was doing the supporting. Starsky patted his back, a silent thanks.

Hutch just hooked his chin on Starsky's shoulder and contentedly shut his eyes. For the second time in three months, he'd gotten his life back.

 

They probably looked quite the pair, Starsky thought, him with his exhaustion and lingering hospital pallor, and Hutch with his mussed hair and drawn face.

But Hutch only had eyes for him. As soon as he'd pulled himself together, he'd wasted no time getting Starsky settled on the couch, a blanket tucked around him, a cooling mug of tea by his hand. Starsky would have been amused by it all if not for the anxiety that lingered in Hutch's eyes. He was trying to make up for what he'd done, and probably would for some time, no matter what Starsky said.

The truth was, Starsky had been a little more reassuring than he'd felt. Hutch's actions might not have been malicious, but they'd still shaken him, and the fingers of hurt reached deep and would take a while to dig out. Deciding to forgive hadn't made that all better.

He had forgiven, however, and meant it. And with Hutch sitting on the coffee table across from him, watching his every movement for any sign of discomfort or need, it wasn't hard to remember why. Loving your brother like yourself had taken on a whole other meaning with this man, and truly this had been as much for himself as for Hutch.

But there was still rebuilding to be done.

"So you never talked to her again?"

Hutch shook his head. "She called me at the station yesterday morning. Said she wanted to apologize for what happened."

"And?" Starsky asked neutrally.

"I told her what she could do with her apology."

Starsky's mouth curved. "You're kidding."

"Starsky, I swear. It was just that one time."

The defensiveness cooled his humor. "I believe you."

Hutch looked at him a long moment before nodding.

There were still awkward pauses in the conversation. With Hutch, that was disconcerting.

"What did you do to your hand?" Hutch asked quietly.

Starsky glanced at the bandage, surprised he'd forgotten all about it. "Little accident working on my car. It's fine."

Hutch gave him a look – he clearly wanted more details – but let it go for now with another nod.

Starsky fought with a yawn and lost.

            "Maybe I should take you home." Hutch was watching him with open worry now.

            "Would you quit worryin'? I'm fine." Starsky batted away the hand that had ventured toward him.

            "You don't look fine," Hutch argued.

            "It's been a hard few days, Hutch," he said softly. He caught the guilty flush and was sorry for it, but some things had to be said. "Losin' Angie would have hurt a little. Losin' you… I didn't even realize how much I was leaning on you until you weren't there."

            "Starsky, I didn't mean… I don't know how to promise you it won't happen again so you'll believe me, but it won't."

            Starsky shifted, uncomfortable. "You don't haveta promise not to do it again, just… don't do it again. I'm not sayin' I wouldn't forgive you if you did, but getting all the trust back is gonna take a while." Hutch flinched, started to straighten. Starsky shot a hand out to grab his arm. "But this isn't all your fault. I coulda handled things better, too. I was just too busy feeling sorry for myself to see the trees."

            Hutch blinked.

Maybe that hadn't come out right. Starsky choked back a sigh. "Just don't go anywhere, okay? Please."

            Hutch eased back, tentative. They both took a breath.

            "Thanks for Ollie," Starsky finally said.

            Finally, a hint of a smile from his partner. "Figured you could use a friend."

            "I got one," Starsky said solidly.

            Hutch swallowed, and squeezed Starsky's knee.

A silent minute passed that didn't feel as awkward. Starsky sipped his tea, watched his partner's restless shifting. What would they be doing if Angie had never have happened? The answer wasn't difficult: what they'd always done, be there for each other. It had always been the best medicine for the two of them, and even Angie hadn't changed that.

Starsky set the mug down and leaned forward, nodding at Hutch.

"So, tell me about Lorraine."

 

            He was in mid-passioned description when Hutch turned and realized his audience had gone to sleep. Falling silent, he stood and just watched his partner.

Starsky had looked exhausted from the beginning but had insisted he wanted to talk, and Hutch wasn't about to argue with him that day. He'd gained a concession in Starsky settling on the couch with his legs stretched out, but had finally given up on sitting with him, pacing instead as the words gushed forth. He wasn't sure exactly what he'd talked about, but Starsky kept nodding and asking questions and giving him encouraging glances, right up to when Hutch had looked up and realized he'd dozed off.

He looked terrible, Hutch realized with a shaky breath. God only knew how he'd been taking care of himself the last few days – there was that new bandage on one hand Starsky had shrugged off as a minor accident – and then he'd climbed all those steps at the risk of reopening his own wounds, physical and emotional.

"If I forgive _you_ , huh?" Hutch whispered to the sleeper, shaking his head. Maybe he hadn't deserved Starsky's renunciation before, but he wasn't sure he merited such complete forgiveness, either.

Earlier that evening, he hadn't thought it was possible to fix what was broken inside him. Everything good had drained away, and he didn't have either the strength or the will to try to get it back. He'd finally reached the bottom he'd hovered over in the hospital three months before.

And then Starsky had shown up. Stripping away his numbness had hurt at first, but then with a few words and a simple touch, he'd reset the foundation and mended what was broken. It scared Hutch that one person could do that to him. And that he'd almost lost that person yet again, this time through his own fault.

_Cut it out – clean slate, right?_ Maybe a little optimistic, but it was a promise he clung to.

Hutch turned away and went quietly to the closet, then the bathroom, collecting supplies as he went before returning to the couch. He eyed his partner critically, decided Starsky’s position wouldn't cramp him up too much for one night, and covered him lightly with a blanket. Then Hutch reseated himself on the coffee table and gently pulled the injured hand to him. As he'd suspected, the bandage was soiled and bunched, and if Starsky hadn't wanted to bother with it when he was awake, Hutch would do it while he was asleep. He cut the bandage off with a few quick snips. Starsky didn't even stir.

He would still have to regain his partner's trust. Hutch was prepared for that and, truth be told, he still felt a little hesitant around his partner, too. They weren't on the streets yet, anyway, not with Starsky still recovering, so there weren't any life-and-death issues at stake, just some serious me-and-thee ones. Hutch imagined they'd be having a few difficult conversations before things felt back to normal. After the last two days, however, that price seemed negligible.

There was a taped piece of gauze under the bandage, and Hutch carefully peeled it off, wincing at the puckered stitches and black-and-blue flesh. This wasn't exactly a "little accident," but at least stitches meant professional care. Had Starsky gone to the hospital on his own, or maybe called Jace over? The latter, Hutch figured. If only he'd…

If only. Along with _what if_ , two of the saddest phrases in the English language. If only Starsky hadn't been shot. If only Hutch hadn't gone to see Angie. If only Lorraine hadn't chosen to drown her sorrows with a needleful of heroin. But Starsky might not have come over then, and maybe they wouldn't be sitting here now, mostly back together. That was one thing Hutch had realized in his outpour to Starsky that evening: things happened for a reason. Even, God help him, nearly losing his partner twice in three months.

Or a Minnesota rich kid and a Jewish kid from the Bronx becoming friends and partners in LA. How was that for a what if?

Jace had probably disinfected the wound, but it still looked ugly so Hutch didn’t take any chances. He squeezed a healthy glob of antibiotic ointment onto the gash, pausing as Starsky sighed but didn't rouse any further, then slowly wound a fresh strip of gauze around the palm, taping it into place. There, good as new.

Maybe, despite the scar, even better. There was nothing like a few scars to remind you how fortunate you'd been.

Hutch softened as he looked at Starsky's face again, up close this time. It was still too thin and drawn, and pale from that night's exertion, but it wasn't hollow anymore like it had been in the hospital, or hard like the last time he'd seen it, right before Starsky had kicked him out. He'd been calm then, but he hadn't looked at peace, not like he did now. Maybe Dobey was the smart one of the three of them, knowing how much they both needed each other, even when their own foolishness nearly pulled them apart.

Hutch hung his head a moment, deeply thankful that despite their best efforts, that break wasn't so easy to effect. Then he stood, rested a hand on Starsky's head, and turning off the living room light, stumbled to bed.

But sleep was slow in coming. The despair was gone, leaving relief and gratitude and, most precious of all, resurrected hope in its wake, but also a lingering ache that kept his mind working. Lorraine's death still hurt, as did his foolish choice of dealing with his own pain in Angie's arms. The fact was that Starsky would have had both right and reason not to forgive, and the thought still chilled Hutch. What had happened to the new beginning after Starsky's return to life, the vows to not take him for granted again, to hold on to that euphoria?

There was a noise in the living room. Hutch stiffened, listening.

There it was again, a soft creak. His hand stole toward the bedside drawer and his weapon inside.

A silhouette appeared around the partition, familiar even in its blanket-wrapped and tousled state. Hutch blinked in astonishment as it rounded the bed with sure steps even though its eyes remained closed, then climbed up onto the far side. With a sigh of comfort, Starsky curled up on his side facing Hutch, snuggled into the blanket, and started to softly snore.

Huh.

Hutch turned carefully on his side, too, watching Starsky sleep just as he had for hours at a time in the hospital. Feeling the same contentment slip over his weary heart as it had then. They'd shared a bed in those first weeks home, just as they did whenever one of them was hurt and the other needed to keep an eye on him during the night. Something had apparently woken that imperative now in Starsky, even in his sleep.

_Apology accepted_. And Hutch surprised himself by actually smiling at the thought.

Okay, so euphoria had necessarily given way to reality, the new beginning one of physical therapy and medications and fatigue and a slow recovery. There was still a lot to be thankful for, and it would get them through even this. Maybe Hutch had overestimated his ability to destroy what the two of them had built together. Or underestimated his partner. Or both.

And maybe they were both just really tired and this could wait until he could string two sentences together without a yawn in between and Starsky fast asleep beside him. Hutch smiled, eyes sinking heavily shut. It could wait. Starsky would still be there in the morning, wrapped in the blankets he'd stolen from Hutch during the night and cranky and in dire need of a shower.

Hutch was looking forward to it.

He'd forgotten one thing along with the relief and gratitude and hope, the one they all sprang from. Love. And despite the bruises inside, that thought still had the power to make him euphoric.

Hutch was still smiling when he fell asleep.

 

            Hutch was off the next day, but Starsky would have called him in sick if he hadn't been.

            The previous day's exertions had caught up with Starsky, and he awoke uncomfortable and short-of-breath. It wasn't pleasant but had the unintended consequence of putting Hutch back into his element, giving him something to worry about. He fussed and coaxed Starsky through a trip back to Westchester, a shower, breakfast, then into his own bed. And Starsky, quietly amused and in no little pain, let him fuss, appreciating having a nurse again.

And chauffeur, and cook, and gardener, and comforter.

Besides, it was doing him good, too. It was hard to harbor any kind of grudge toward someone who laid out your favorite comfortable clothes for you after your shower and fixed you a salami omelet with well-disguised disgust.

            It went both ways, though, and Starsky grabbed his partner's arm as Hutch was about to dart out of the room for yet another thing he'd forgotten. "Hey, sit down for a minute, will ya?"

            Hutch, looking slightly bewildered, obeyed, sinking down onto the edge of Starsky's bed.

            His face had lightened a lot since the day before, the haggard, hopeless lines almost gone. His eyes had undergone the most dramatic change, though, soft and alive again and, when they looked at Starsky, unabashedly glad. He needed more rest and there was still a lingering sorrow and, in odd moments, even hesitation still, but give it another few weeks and he'd practically be the kid Starsky had met in the Academy a decade ago.

            Yeah, he liked what he saw. Starsky rubbed his arm, quiet. "I'm sorry about Lorraine."

            Hutch took a breath, nodded. "Yeah. Me, too. I hope she's at peace now."

            "At least she had a good last night."

            Hutch nodded, eyes somewhere on the blanket. He still hadn't said much about her, but he would when he was ready. They both just needed time, Starsky thought silently, time and the right company.

Speaking of which, he cocked his head, considering his partner. "Hey, you wanna watch some TV?"

            "In here?" Hutch glanced around as if Starsky had asked him to dance.

            "Sure."

A beat. "Okay. I'm just gonna take a shower first." He stood wearily, made it to the door, then seemed to realize what had just dawned on Starsky. He turned back, looking sheepish. "Uh, can I borrow…?"

"Your bag's in the living room under the end table."

Hutch frowned, no doubt remembering the duffel Starsky had forced on him, the same duffel Starsky had caught a glimpse of in Hutch's closet back home, unopened. He refused to let himself flush as he met Hutch's gaze defiantly.

His partner's fair skin was a lot less forgiving, and Hutch's cheeks colored as he realized what Starsky was not saying. Those blue eyes managed to get even softer and more abashed as he raised a hand briefly and walked out.

Starsky had been luckier not to have an audience when his own revelation had come earlier that morning. A flicker of familiar writing had caught his eye as he'd passed the trashcan in Hutch's bedroom, and he'd bent down to fish out the crumpled envelope. It was indeed from Angie, but the letter was unopened, twisted in a savage ball uncharacteristic of his partner.

Starsky had dropped it back where it belonged, also uninterested in its contents. And by the time he saw his partner in the kitchen, there was no sign of the silly grin that had crept over his face at the unintended proof of his partner's trustworthiness – nothing but his fond ruffling of the blond hair, which had elicited a baffled but happy smile.

Hutch returned in a loose pair of jeans and a large sweatshirt. They would both have to go clothes shopping soon with all the weight they'd been dropping. It wasn't bothering Hutch, though, and Starsky let it go, patting the bed beside him with one hand as he picked up the TV remote with the other.

Hutch eyed the offered seat doubtfully. "You still sound awful. Maybe I should just–"

"For Pete's sake, would you get up here?"

Hutch glowered at him but obeyed, climbing up onto the other side.

People would start talking soon if they kept up the bed-sharing, but when you still woke up sometimes in the middle of the night feeling like you couldn't breathe and your partner had just gone to his own Hell and back, no matter how much machismo you had, you tended to get a lot less squeamish. Personally, Starsky liked having the guy close where he could keep an eye on him… and Hutch could return the favor. It was how they worked.

"You do sound awful. You should take some of those muscle relaxers they gave you."

"It's not so bad," Starsky said absently, flipping through channels.

Hutch was quiet when he spoke. "You don't have to do that with me."

Starsky flinched. It was fair, though. He sometimes forgot Hutch saw through him just as easily as he did through the blond, but it was time to practice what he preached and wipe that pained look off his partner's face. Either he trusted his partner or he didn't. Starsky nodded. "They're in the bathroom."

Hutch disappeared silently, returning a minute later with a pair of pills and a glass of water.

"Thanks," Starsky said sheepishly, washing the pills down.

"You're welcome. Now move. You're starting to take over the bed."

Starsky cheerfully wriggled closer to his edge of the bed as Hutch climbed over him and settled against the headboard, and picked up the remote again. "How 'bout _General Hospital_?" He changed the channel.

"You've gotta be kidding."

"Hey, I started watchin' it in the hospital. It wasn't bad."

Hutch slipped down a little, getting comfortable, his own tiredness starting to show. "You were on serious medication at the time. Why don't you see what's on Public Television?"

"Forget it," Starsky said flatly.

"You know," Hutch looked at him seriously, "you've really gotten hard to live with recently."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"What're you gonna do about it?"

Hutch opened his mouth, then seemed to think of something that made him almost smile, and he shook his head. "Nothing," he said simply.

Actually, Public TV wasn't as bad as Starsky had expected.

 

            "I'll be back in a minute," Starsky told him as he leaned in the car window. He could do that almost without wincing now, although Hutch knew he was still feeling the exertion of the days before.

            "You sure you don't want me to come with you?" Hutch asked, hoping the answer was still no. Some things he still wasn't quite up for, despite the progress they'd made those past few days.

            "No, I wanna do this myself," Starsky said seriously, giving him a long look before flashing him an unexpected smile, then he was walking up to the building.

            Hutch watched him go, marveling at his increasing ease of movement, at the energy he'd recovered since the shooting… and the resilience of spirit that had forgiven and forgotten Hutch's stupidity yet again. After Kira, he hadn't dared hoped for that, but once again Hutch had underestimated his partner.

            He was the one who still seemed to feel… uncertain. Tentative. Not about Starsky, who'd been firm about how completely he was putting the past week behind him and moving on, even though there were still moments when Hutch could see a flicker in his eyes of the pain Hutch had inflicted on him. But Starsky had decided the matter was settled, and Hutch trusted him enough to believe it. No, it was himself he was still unsure of, the part of him that had wanted to believe Angie despite his instincts, the fears that had him risking their partnership for a moment of forgetting. There were still demons to be dealt with.

            The building door opened and Starsky walked out, his steps a little stiffer than when he'd gone in, but his face softening into a smile as his eyes met his partner's. He opened the car door and slid in, shutting it gingerly behind him.

            "Everything okay?" Hutch asked him.

            "Terrific." The tone was wry but there was no hurt in it, and Hutch accepted the answer.

            As he turned the key in the ignition, there was movement above, and Hutch glanced up to see her in the window, staring down at them with her pretty face twisted in anger. Angie had tried for both of them and ended up with neither, and didn't seem too happy about it. Hutch could just imagine what Starsky had said to her. It was probably a good thing he hadn't gone along. At least Starsky stayed a gentleman when he was mad. Hutch stared at her, unyielding, until she whirled away from the window, out of his sight.

There were always demons to be dealt with, though, weren't there? That was part of life. The point was how you fought against them, and who you were fighting with.

Starsky fidgeted in his seat, anxious to be going, and Hutch shook his head, feeling pity for the woman alone in the apartment above. "Bye, Angie," he murmured.

            "Hmm?"

            Hutch looked at his partner, flashed him a smile. Starsky was certain of him, and until Hutch regained his footing, that would be enough. "Nothing. You ready?"

            "Let's get out of here."

            And they went.

 


End file.
